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IN  BIRD  LAND 


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IN  BIRD  LAND 


BY 

LEANDER  S.  KEYSER 


Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk? 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson:  Forbearance 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I am  listening  now! 

Percy  B.  Shelley  : To  a Skylark 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  AND  COMPANY 

1896 


Copyright 

By  A.  C.  McClurg  and  Coo 
a.d.  1894 


=^<?7  7/  y 

K 

t?°U 

NOTE. 

The  articles  comprising  this  volume  having 
been  previously  published  in  various  periodi- 
cals of  the  country,  I would  desire  to  tender 
my  grateful  acknowledgments  to  the  several 
publishers  and  editors  for  their  uniform  cour- 
tesy in  permitting  me  to  reprint  the  papers. 
My  observations  on  birds  have  been  made, 
except  when  otherwise  indicated,  in  various 
haunts  in  and  about  Springfield,  Ohio,  — a 
region  well  adapted  for  ornithological  research 
or  pastime. 

L.  S.  K. 


5 


August,  1894. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.  Wayside  Rambles 9 

II.  Bird  Curios 24 

III.  Winter  Frolics 40 

IV.  February  Outings 58 

V.  Arrival  of  the  Birds 64 

VI.  Winged  Voyagers 76 

VII.  Plumage  of  Young  Birds 87 

VIII.  Nest-Hunting 92 

IX.  Midsummer  Melodies no 

X.  Where  Birds  Roost 116 

XI.  The  Wood-Pewee 127 

XII.  A Pair  of  Night-Hawks 135 

XIII.  A Birds’  Gala-Day 141 

XIV.  Rife  with  Birds 152 

XV.  Various  Phases  of  Bird  Life: 

I.  Bird  Courtship 160 

II.  Bird  Nurseries 169 

III.  Bird  High  Schools 185 

IV.  Bird  Work 193 

V.  Bird  Play 201 

VI.  Bird  Deaths 207 

XVI.  The  Secret  of  Appreciation 216 

XVII.  Browsings  in  Other  Fields 226 

XVIII.  A Bird  Anthology  from  Lowell  . . . 242 

My  Bird  List 263 

Index 267 


This  way  would  I also  sing , 

My  dear  little  hillside  neighbor  l 
A tender  carol  of  peace  to  bring 
To  the  sunburnt  fields  of  labor 
Is  better  than  7naking  a loud  ado; 

Trill  on , a?nid  clover  and  yarrow  l 
There  's  a heart-beat  echoing  for  you, 

And  blessing  you,  blithe  little  sparrow  f 

Lucy  Larcom. 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


i. 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES. 

OOKING  out  of  my  study  window  one  fair 


spring  morning,  I noticed  a friend  — a pro- 
fessional man  — walking  along  the  street,  evidently 
taking  his  “constitutional.”  Having  reached  the  end 
of  the  brick  pavement,  he  paused,  glanced  around 
a moment  undecidedly,  and  then,  instead  of  walk- 
ing out  into  the  beckoning  fields  and  woods,  turned 
down  another  street  which  led  into  a thickly  popu- 
lated part  of  the  city.  Surely,  I mused,  we  are  not 
all  cast  in  the  same  mould.  While  he  carefully 
avoided  going  beyond  the  suburbs  and  the  beaten 
paths,  as  if  afraid  he  might  soil  his  polished  shoes, 
I should  have  plunged  boldly  into  the  country, 
“ across  lots,”  to  find  some  sequestered  nook  or 
grass-grown  by-way,  “ far  from  human  neighbor- 
hood,” to  hold  undisturbed  converse  with  Nature. 
My  friend’s  conduct,  however,  did  not  put  me  in 
a critical  mood,  but  rather  stirred  some  grateful 
reflections  on  the  wise  adaptation  of  all  things  in 


10 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


the  world  of  being.  How  fortunate  that  men  are 
so  variously  constituted  ! If  some  did  not  naturally 
choose  the  bustle  and  stir  and  excitement  of  the 
city,  where  would  be  our  philanthropists,  our  How- 
ards and  Peabodys  and  Dodges?  On  the  other 
hand,  if  others  did  not  voluntarily  seek  quiet  and 
solitude  in  Nature’s  unfrequented  haunts,  the  world 
would  never  have  been  blessed  with  a Wordsworth, 
an  Emerson,  or  a Lowell ; and  in  that  case,  for  some 
of  us  at  least,  life  would  have  been  bare  and  arid. 

It  is  true,  we  cannot  accept  Pope’s  dictum,  “ What- 
ever is,  is  right.”  We  know  that  many  things  that 
are,  are  wrong;  but  doubtless  more  things  in  this 
paradoxical  old  world  are  right  than  moralists  some- 
times suppose.  To  the  genuine  lover  of  Nature,  and 
especially  to  the  lover  of  her  unbeaten  pathways, 
the  ringing  lines  of  Emerson  come  home  with 
thrilling  power : — 

“ If  I could  put  my  woods  in  song 
And  tell  what ’s  there  enjoyed, 

All  men  would  to  my  gardens  throng, 

And  leave  the  cities  void.” 

Yet  I doubt  if  any  spot  in  Nature’s  domain  could 
be  made  so  attractive  as  to  overcome  most  persons’ 
natural  love  of  human  association.  Mayhap  even 
if  this  could  be  done,  it  would  not  be  desirable. 
Should  all  men  hie  to  the  woods  and  leave  the 
cities  void,  it  would  spoil  both  the  woods  and  the 
cities.  The  charm  of  the  woods  is  their  quiet, 
their  solitude ; the  enchantment  of  the  city,  its 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES . 


1 1 

thronging  life  and  activity.  While  I may  be  lone- 
some in  a crowd,  my  neighbor  is  almost  sure  to  feel 
lonesome  in  the  marsh  or  the  deep  ravine.  If  all 
men  loved  Nature  with  a passion  that  could  not  be 
controlled,  much  work  would  be  left  undone  that  is 
indispensable  to  human  life  and  happiness.  I am 
glad,  therefore,  that  there  are  many  birds  of  many 
kinds ; glad,  too,  that  there  are  many  men  of  many 
minds.  The  apostle  does  well  to  remind  his  breth- 
ren in  the  church  that  there  are  “ diversities  of  gifts  ” 
and  “ diversities  of  operations,”  even  if  all  do  spring 
from  “the  same  Spirit.” 

Albeit,  as  for  me,  give  me 

“ A secret  nook  in  a pleasant  land, 

Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned.” 

Emerson  voices  my  own  feeling  when  he  sings : — 

“ A woodland  walk, 

A quest  of  river-grapes,  a mocking  thrush, 

A wild  rose,  or  rock-loving  columbine, 

Salve  my  worst  wounds  ; ” 

for, 

“What  friend  to  friend  cannot  convey, 

Shall  the  dumb  bird  instructed  say.” 

And  it  is  true  that  a wayside  ramble  will  often  do, 
by  way  of  self-revelation  and  conviction,  what  no 
human  voice  of  chastisement  can  accomplish.  Mr. 
Howells  says,  in  one  of  his  most  trenchant  analytical 
novels  : “ If  you  ’re  not  in  first-rate  spiritual  condition, 
you  ’re  apt  to  get  floored  if  you  undertake  to  com- 
mune with  Nature.”  There  are  times  when  the  very 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


I 2 

immaculateness  of  the  sky,  or  the  purity  of  a wood- 
land flower,  rebukes  one,  gives  one  a keen  sense  of 
one’s  sins,  and  makes  one  long  for  absolution ; or 
when  the  pensive  moaning  of  the  wind  through  the 
gray,  branchless  trees  on  a winter’s  day  forces  on 
the  mind  a prevision  of  a judgment  about  to  be 
visited  upon  one’s  misdoings.  Yet  this  is  seldom 
my  own  experience  while  idling  in  out-of-the-way 
places.  Usually  I feel  soothed  and  comforted,  or, 
at  most,  a sort  of  glad  melancholy  steals  over  me, 
which  is  as  enchanting  as  a magician’s  spell ; while 
I often  win  exhilaration  from  the  whispering  breezes, 
as  if  they  carried  a tonic  on  their  pulsing  wings. 

On  the  spring  morning  on  which  my  friend  so 
studiously  avoided  Nature’s  by-paths,  my  stint  of 
labor  for  the  day  was  soon  despatched,  and  then, 
flinging  my  lunch-bag  over  my  shoulders,  I hurried 
across  the  fields,  anxious  to  put  a comfortable  dis- 
tance between  myself  and  bothering  human  tene- 
ments. By  noon  I had  reached  a green  hollow  at 
the  border  of  a woodland,  where  Nature,  to  a large 
extent  at  least,  has  had  her  own  sweet  way.  Here, 
on  the  grassy  bank  of  a rivulet,  I sat  down  to  eat  my 
luncheon.  The  spring  near  by  filled  my  cup  with 
ale  that  sparkles,  but  never  burns ; that  quenches 
thirst,  but  never  creates  it.  Not  a human  habita- 
tion was  in  sight ; nothing  but  the  tinkling  brook, 
the  sloping  hills,  the  quiet  woods,  and  the  overarch- 
ing sky.  The  haunt  was  not  without  music.  The 
far-away  cadences  of  the  bush- sparrows  on  the  hill- 
side filled  the  place  like  melodious  sunshine.  A 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES . 


*3 

short  distance  down  the  hollow  a song- sparrow 
thrummed  his  harp,  while  a cooing  dove  lent  her 
dreamy  threnody  to  the  wayside  trio.  Although 
engaged  in  the  prosaic  act  of  eating  my  luncheon, 
I breathed  in  an  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  romance, 
and  half  expected  a company  of  water-witches  and 
dryads  to  leap  upon  the  greensward  before  me 
and  dance  to  the  music  of  bird  and  brook.  A 
pagan  I am  not,  — at  least,  such  is  my  hope ; but 
moods  subjunctive  sometimes  seize  me  when  I do 
not  blame  the  Greeks  — aye,  rather,  when  I praise 
them  — for  peopling  the  woods  with  Pan  and  his 
retinue ; for  I feel  the  influence  of  a strange, 
mystical,  and  more  than  impersonal  presence. 

Yes,  one’s  dreams  sometimes  take  on  a specula- 
tive cast,  even  on  a day  that  seems  to  be  “the  bridal 
of  the  earth  and  sky.”  In  this  unfrequented  spot 
the  birds  sing  their  sweetest  carols,  be  there  a human 
ear  to  hear  or  not.  Do  they  sing  merely  for  their 
own  delectation,  these  little  creatures  of  a day? 
Is  there  not  far  too  much  sweetness  wasted  on  the 
desert  air?  Would  there  not  be  more  purpose  in 
Nature  could  these  dulcet  strains  be  treasured  in 
some  way,  so  that  they  might  be  poured  into  man’s 
appreciative  ear?  Why  has  Nature  made  no  pho- 
nographs? Wherefore  all  this  waste  of  ointment? 
Does  Nature  encourage  the  habits  of  the  spend- 
thrift? I recall  a summer  day  when  I strolled 
along  a deep,  lonely  ravine.  It  was  at  least  a mile 
to  the  nearest  human  dwelling.  Suddenly  a clear, 
melodious  trill  from  a song-sparrow’s  lusty  throat 


14 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


rippled  through  the  stillness,  making  my  pulses 
flutter.  Here,  doubtless,  the  little  Arion  had  sung 
his  roundels  all  summer  long,  and  perhaps  I had 
been  the  only  person  who  had  heard  him,  and  then 
I had  caught  only  a few  tantalizing  strains  — simply 
enough  to  give  a taste  for  more.  Why  was  the 
peerless  triller  apparently  burying  his  talents  in  this 
solitary  haunt? 

It  may  be  true  of  bird  song,  as  of  the  recluse 
flower,  that  “ beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being ; ” 
but  I am  not  ashamed  to  record  my  confession  of 
faith,  my  creed,  on  this  matter;  not  my  dreamy 
cogitations  with  ifs  and  mayhaps . There  is  a divine 
ear  which  catches  every  strain  of  wayside  melody, 
and  appreciates  it  at  its  true  value.  Thus,  no  beauty 
or  sweetness  is  ever  lost,  no  bird  or  flower  is  really 
an  anchorite.  A bird  may  flit  away  in  alarm  at  the 
approach  of  a human  intruder,  and  may  not  lisp  a 
note  until  he  is  well  out  of  the  haunt ; but  the  same 
songster  will  unconsciously  pour  his  dithyrambs  all 
summer  long  into  the  ear  of  God.  Nature  was  not 
made  for  man  alone  ; it  was  also  made  for  its  Cre- 
ator. Never  has  the  brown  thrasher  sung  with  such 
enchanting  vigor  and  abandon  as  he  did  the  other 
day  at  the  corner  of  the  woods  when  he  thought  no 
human  auditor  within  ear-shot.  He  was  singing  for 
God,  albeit  unconsciously. 

It  is  high  time  to  get  back  to  my  waysiding,  if  I 
may  coin  a word.  You  must  go  to  an  out-of-the- 
way  resort,  far  from  the  din  of  loom  and  factory,  to 
feel  the  quaint,  delicate  fancy  of  Sidney  Lanier’s 
lines,  — 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES. 


!S 


“ Robins  and  mocking-birds  that  all  day  long 

Athwart  straight  sunshine  weave  cross-threads  of  song, 

Shuttles  of  music.” 

The  wayside  rambler  often  is  witness  of  delight- 
ful bird-pranks  that  must  escape  other  eyes.  On  a 
bright  day  in  February  I strolled  to  the  hollow  to 
which  I have  already  referred.  The  sun  was  melt- 
ing the  ice-mantle  from  the  brook,  and  causing  the 
snow  to  pour  in  runlets  down  the  banks.  In  a 
broad,  shallow  curve  of  the  stream  the  tree-sparrows 
and  song-sparrows  were  taking  a bath.  I watched 
them  for  a long  time.  Some  of  them  would  remain 
in  the  ice-cold  water  for  from  three  to  five  minutes, 
fluttering  their  wings  and  tails  in  perfect  glee,  and 
sending  the  pearl-drops  and  spray  glimmering  into 
the  air.  Their  ablutions  done,  they  would  fly  up  to 
the  saplings  near  by,  and  carefully  preen  and  dry 
their  moistened  robes. 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  the  woods  that  my  saucy 
black-cap,  the  titmouse,  clambered  straight  up  the 
vertical  bole  of  an  oak  sapling,  as  if  he  had  learned 
the  trick  from  the  brown  creeper  or  the  white- 
breasted nuthatch.  No  less  interesting  was  the 
conduct  of  the  downy  woodpecker,  that  little  drum- 
major  of  the  woods.  He  is  the  tilter  par  excellence 
of  the  woodpecker  family.  He  flings  himself  in  the 
most  reckless  manner  from  trunk  to  branch,  and 
from  branch  to  twig,  often  alighting  back-downward 
on  the  slenderest  stems.  Shall  I describe  one  of 
his  odd  tricks?  I had  often  seen  him  clinging  to 
the  slender  withes  of  the  willows  at  the  border  of 


i6 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


the  swamp,  and  had  wondered  how  he  could  hold 
himself  with  his  claws  to  so  meagre  a support.  It 
was  a problem.  How  much  I longed  to  solve  it ! 
However,  for  a long  time  the  bird  so  completely 
baffled  me  that  I felt  like  another  Tantalus.  One 
winter  day,  however,  he  happened  to  be  quite  near 
the  ground  as  I stood  beneath  the  willows,  so  that 
I could  see  just  how  he  accomplished  the  mysteri- 
ous feat.  Imagine  my  surprise  ! He  did  not  cling 
to  the  withes  with  his  daws  at  all,  as  he  clings  to  a 
tree-trunk  or  a large  bough,  but  grasped  the  slender 
perches  with  his  feet,  precisely  as  if  they  were  hands, 
flinging  his  long  toes,  like  fingers,  clear  around  the 
stems,  one  foot  above  the  other.  In  ascending,  he 
would  go  foot  over  foot ; in  descending,  he  would 
simply  loosen  his  hold  slightly  and  slip  down.  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  may  have  made  more  important  dis- 
coveries, but  he  did  not  feel  prouder  or  happier 
when  he  solved  the  binomial  theorem  than  did  I 
when  my  little  avian  problem  was  solved.  I am  not 
aware  that  any  one  else  has  ever  described  this 
performance,  and  am  strongly  tempted  to  announce 
it  as  an  original  discovery.  Yet  a certain  writer 
once  declared,  patronizingly,  that  there  are  some 
writers  — himself  excepted,  of  course  — on  natural 
history  themes  who  proclaim  as  original  discoveries 
many  facts  that  are  perfectly  familiar  to  every  tyro 
in  science.  Spite  of  the  scornful  reflection,  however, 
it  is  my  modest  opinion  that  there  are  very  few 
observers  who  have  seen  a woodpecker  ascending  a 
willow-withe  foot  over  foot. 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES . 


!7 


Many,  many  a cunning  bird  prank  would  have 
been  missed  had  I kept,  like  the  majority  of  pedes- 
trians, to  the  beaten  track.  There,  for  example, 
is  that  odd  little  genius  in  mottled  robes,  the  brown 
creeper,  who  has  performed  a sufficient  number  of 
quaint  gambols  to  repay  me  for  all  the  time  and 
effort  expended  in  pursuing  my  wayside  rambles. 
He  is  always  sui  generis , apparently  priding  himself 
on  his  eccentricities,  like  some  people  you  may 
know.  A genuine  arboreal  creeper,  he  almost  in- 
variably coasts  up  hill.  Unlike  his  congeners,  the 
nuthatch  and  the  creeping  warbler,  he  never  goes 
head-downward.  Dear  me,  no ! Whether  it  is 
because  it  makes  him  light-headed,  or  he  regards 
it  as  bad  form,  I am  unable  to  say.  He  does  not 
even  hitch  down  backward  after  the  manner  of  the 
woodpeckers,  but  marches  up,  up,  up,  until  he 
thinks  it  time  to  descend,  which  he  does  by  taking 
to  wing,  bounding  around  in  an  arc  as  if  he  were 
an  animated  rubber  ball.  You  may  almost  imagine 
him  saying : “ Pah  ! such  vulgar  sport  as  creeping 
head-downward  may  be  well  enough  for  mere 
plebeians  like  the  nuthatches  and  the  striped 
creepers,  but  it  is  quite  beneath  the  caste  of  a 
patrician  like  myself ! Tseem  ! tseem ! ” At  rare 
intervals  he  will  slip  down  sidewise  for  a short 
distance,  in  a slightly  oblique  direction,  especially 
when  he  comes  to  a fork  of  the  branches. 

However,  he  does  not  think  it  beneath  his  dignity 
to  take  a promenade  on  the  under  side  of  a hori- 
zontal bough.  One  day  as  I watched  him  doing 


i8 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


this,  he  reached  a point  where  the  limb  made  an 
obtuse  angle  by  bending  obliquely  downward.  Now 
what  would  he  do?  Would  he  really  hitch  down 
that  branch  head-foremost,  only  for  once?  By  no 
means.  Catch  him  committing  such  a breach  of 
creeper  decorum  ! He  suddenly  spread  his  wings 
and  hurled  himself  to  the  lower  end  of  that  oblique 
section  of  the  branch,  and  then  ambled  up  to  the 
angle  in  regular  orthodox  fashion.  You  will  never 
find  him  doing  anything  to  give  employment  to  the 
heresy  hunters  ! 1 

Have  any  of  my  fellow-observers  ever  seen  this 
merry-andrew  convert  himself  into  a whirligig?  I 
once  witnessed  this  droll  performance,  which  seemed 
almost  like  a vagary.  A creeper  was  clinging  to  a 
large  oak-tree  near  the  base,  when  he  took  it  into 
his  crazy  little  pate,  for  what  earthly  — or  unearthly  — 
reason  I know  not,  to  wheel  around  like  a top  several 

1 Some  months  after  the  foregoing  had  appeared  in  the 
columns  of  a popular  journal  I had  occasion  to  modify  one 
assertion.  For  many  years  I had  been  studying  the  creeper, 
and  had  never  seen  him  descend  a tree  or  bough  head-first 
until  one  autumn  day  while  loitering  in  the  woods.  A creeper 
was  hitching  up  the  stem  of  a sapling  in  his  characteristic 
manner  ; as  I drew  near,  he  seemed  to  catch  a glimpse  of  a 
tidbit  in  his  rear,  near  the  sapling’s  root.  In  his  extreme 
haste  to  secure  it  before  I drove  him  away,  he  wheeled 
around,  scuttled  down  over  the  bark  head-foremost  a distance 
of  perhaps  two  feet,  picked  up  his  morsel,  and  then  dashed 
out  of  sight,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  breach  of  creeper  etiquette, 
probably  to  eat  humble  pie  at  his  leisure.  That  was  in  the 
autumn  of  1892.  Since  then  no  creeper,  to  my  knowledge, 
has  been  guilty  of  a similar  offence  against  the  convenances . 


WAYS  WE  RAMBLES. 


*9 


times  in  quick  succession.  He  rested  a moment, 
and  then  repeated  the  comedy. 

On  another  occasion  a creeper  was  preening  his 
ruffled  feathers,  having  evidently  just  taken  a bath ; 
and  how  do  you  suppose  he  went  about  it  ? In  quite  a 
characteristic  fashion,  you  may  rest  assured.  Instead 
of  sitting  crosswise  on  a perch,  as  most  birds  would 
have  done,  he  clung  to  the  vertical  bole  of  a large 
oak-tree,  holding  himself  firmly  against  the  shaggy 
bark,  and  daintily  straightening  out  every  feather 
from  his  breast  to  his  flexible  tail.  Growing  tired 
of  this  position  — apparently  so,  at  least  — he 
shuffled  up  to  a fork  made  by  the  trunk  and  a large 
limb,  where  he  found  a more  comfortable  slanting 
perch  on  which  to  complete  his  toilet.  Once,  after- 
ward, I saw  a creeper  arranging  his  plumes  in  the 
same  way. 

But  the  quaintest  exploit  of  this  bird  still  remains 
to  be  described.  One  autumn  day,  while  rambling 
along  the  foot  of  a range  of  steep  cliffs,  I caught  sight 
of  one  of  these  birds  darting  from  a tree  toward  the 
perpendicular  wall  of  rock.  For  a few  moments  I 
lost  him,  but  followed  post-haste,  muttering  to  my- 
self, “ What  if  I should  find  the  little  clown  climbing 
up  the  face  of  the  cliff ! That  would  be  a perform- 
ance worth  describing  to  my  bird-loving  friends, 
wouldn’t  it?”  (Surely  a monomaniac  may  talk 
aloud  to  himself.)  I could  scaicely  believe  my 
eyes,  for  the  next  moment  my  happy  presenti- 
ment was  realized ; there  was  the  creeper  scaling 
the  vertical  face  of  the  cliff,  with  as  much  ease  and 


20 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


aplomb,  apparently,  as  a fly  creeping  up  the  smooth 
surface  of  a window-pane  ! Then  he  flew  ahead  a 
short  distance,  and  began  mounting  the  cliff  where 
its  face  was  quite  smooth  and  hard.  Presently  he 
encountered  a bulging  protuberance,  and  tried  to 
creep  along  the  oblique  under  side  of  it ; but 
that  feat  proved  to  be  beyond  his  skill,  agile  as  he 
was,  and  so  he  abandoned  the  attempt,  and  swung 
away  to  another  part  of  the  vertical  wall.  I have 
never  seen,  in  any  of  the  manuals  which  I have  con- 
sulted, a description  of  a similar  performance  ; and 
if  any  of  my  readers  have  ever  witnessed  such  a 
“ coruscation  ” of  creeper  genius,  I should  be  glad 
to  hear  from  them. 

In  one’s  out-of-the-way  saunterings,  one  dashes 
up  against  many  a faunal  problem  that  defies,  even 
while  it  challenges,  solution.  On  a cold  day  of 
early  winter  I was  strolling  along  the  bare,  wind- 
swept banks  of  a river,  keeping  my  eyes  alert,  as 
usual,  for  bird  curios.  In  the  small  bushes  that 
fringed  the  bank  were  some  cunningly  placed  nests. 
In  the  bottom  of  one  of  them  lay  many  seeds  of 
dogwood  berries,  with  the  kernels  bored  out,  — the 
work,  no  doubt,  of  the  crested  tits.  But  there  were 
no  dogwood-trees  within  twenty- five  rods  of  the 
place  ! Why  had  the  birds  carried  the  shells  to  this 
nest,  and  dropped  them  into  it?  This  is  all  the 
more  curious  because  it  was  not  a tit’s  nest,  but 
very  likely  a cat-bird’s.  One  can  only  surmise  that 
the  tits  had  gathered  these  seeds  in  the  fall,  and 
stowed  them  away  in  the  nest  for  winter  use,  and 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES. 


21 

then  had  eaten  out  the  kernels  when  hunger  drove 
them  to  it.  That  would  be  in  perfect  keeping  with 
the  habits  of  these  thrifty  little  providers  for  the 
morrow. 

During  the  winter  of  1892-1893  a red-bellied 
woodpecker,  often  called  the  zebra-bird,  took  up 
his  residence  in  my  woodland.  (I  call  it  mine  by 
a sort  of  usufruct,  because  I ramble  through  its 
pleasant  archways  or  sit  in  its  quiet  boudoirs  at  all 
hours  and  in  all  seasons.)  With  the  exception  of 
several  brief  absences,  for  which  I could  not  account, 
the  woodpecker  remained  until  the  following  spring, 
giving  me  some  delightful  surprises.  It  was  the 
first  winter  he  had  shown  the  good  grace  to  keep 
me  company.  Perhaps  he  was  lazy ; or  he  may 
have  been  a clumsy  flier ; or  perchance  he  got 
separated  from  his  fellows  by  accident,  and  so  was 
left  behind  in  the  autumn  when  the  southward  pil- 
grimage began. 

He  was,  by  all  odds,  the  handsomest  woodpecker 
I had  ever  seen.  His  entire  crown  and  hind-neck 
were  brilliant  crimson,  which  fairly  shimmered  like 
a flambeau  when  the  sun  peeped  through  a rift  in 
the  clouds  and  shone  upon  it ; and  then  his  back 
was  beautifully  mottled  and  striped  with  black  and 
white,  while  his  tail  was  bordered  with  a broad  band 
of  deep  black.  What  a splendid  picture  he  made, 
too,  whenever  he  spread  his  wings  and  bolted  from 
one  tree  to  another  ! I wish  an  artist  could  have 
caught  him  on  the  wing,  and  transferred  him  to 
canvas.  He  performed  a trick  that  was  new  to 


22 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


me,  and  did  it  several  times.  He  would  dash  to 
some  twigs,  balance  before  them  a moment  on  the 
wing,  pick  a nit  or  a worm  from  a dead  leaf-clump, 
and  then  swing  back  to  his  upright  p'erch.  Once 
he  found  a grain  of  corn  in  a pocket  of  the  bark, 
placed  there,  perhaps,  by  a nuthatch ; but  he  did 
not  seem  to  care  for  johnny-cake,  and  so  he  dropped 
it  back  into  the  pocket.  How  cunningly  he  canted 
his  head  and  peered  into  the  crannies  of  the  bark 
for  grubs,  calling,  Chack  ! chack  ! 

During  the  entire  winter  he  uttered  only  this 
harsh,  stirring  note,  half  jocose,  half  spiteful ; but, 
greatly  to  my  surprise,  when  spring  arrived,  espe- 
cially if  the  weather  happened  to  be  pleasant,  he 
began  to  call,  K-t-r-r!  k-t-r-r ! precisely  like  a 
red-headed  woodpecker;  indeed,  at  first  I laid 
siege  to  every  tree,  looking  in  vain  for  a red-head 
come  prematurely  northward,  until  I discovered  the 
trick  of  my  winter  intimate,  the  red-bellied  wood- 
chopper.  Why  it  should  have  been  so  I cannot 
explain ; but  whenever  a cold  wave  struck  this  lati- 
tude during  the  spring,  he  would  invariably  revert 
to  his  harsh  Chack!  chack!  and  then  when  the 
breezes  grew  balmy  again,  he  would  resume  his 
other  reveille,  making  the  woods  echo.  I also  dis- 
covered — it  was  a discovery  to  myself,  at  least  — 
that  the  red-bellied  is  a drummer,  like  most  of  his 
relatives ; but  not  once  did  he  thrum  his  merry 
ra-ta-ta  before  spring  arrived,  — another  avian 
conundrum  for  the  naturalist  to  beat  his  brains 
against. 


WAYSIDE  RAMBLES. 


23 


But  hold  ! I might  go  rambling  on  in  this  way 
forever,  like  Tennyson’s  brook,  — or,  possibly,  like 
Ixion  revolving  on  his  wheel,  — describing  the  odd 
pranks  witnessed  in  my  wayside  rambles.  It  is 
high  time,  however,  to  call  a halt ; yet,  after  a brief 
breathing-space,  these  miscellanies  will  be  resumed 
in  the  next  chapter,  which  may,  with  some  degree 
of  propriety,  be  entitled  “ Bird  Curios.” 


24 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


II. 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


VERY  observer  of  birds  and  animals  has 


-L Ij  doubtless  amassed  many  facts  of  intense 
interest  — at  all  events,  of  intense  interest  to  him- 
self— which  he  has  not  been  able  to  adjust  to  any 
systematic  arrangement  he  may  have  made  of  his 
material.  That  is  true  of  the  incidents  described  in 
this  chapter.  It  will,  therefore,  necessarily  partake 
of  the  nature  of  bric-a-brac.  If  it  were  not  so  self- 
complimentary, I should  dub  it  bird  mosaic,  and 
have  done.  The  reader  will  perhaps  be  more  dis- 
posed to  trace  a resemblance  to  an  eccentric  old 
woman’s  “ crazy  quilt ; ” and  if  he  prefers  the  home- 
lier and  less  poetical  title,  I shall  not  complain. 

But  even  a bit  of  patchwork  must  be  begun 
somewhere,  and  so  I shall  plunge  at  once  in  medias 
res . 

The  day  was  one  of  the  fairest  of  early  spring. 
How  shall  I describe  it?  No  sky  could  have  been 
bluer,  no  fields  greener.  The  earth  smiled  under 
the  favoritism  of  the  radiant  heavens  in  happy 
recognition.  My  steps  were  bent  along  the  green 
banks  of  a winding  creek  in  northern  Indiana. 
Suddenly  a loud,  varied  bird  song  fell  on  my  ear 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


25 


and  brought  me  to  a full  stop.  It  swept  down  lilt- 
ingly  from  a high,  bushy  bank  some  rods  back  from 
the  stream,  and  at  once  proclaimed  itself  as  the 
rhapsody  of  the  cat- bird.  Anxious  to  watch  the 
brilliant  vocalist  in  his  singing  attitudes,  I ap- 
proached the  acclivity,  and  soon  espied  him  in  the 
midst  of  the  dense  copse,  which  was  not  yet  covered 
with  foliage.  He  redoubled  his  efforts  when  he  saw 
an  appreciative  auditor  standing  near.  Presently  a 
quaint  impulse  seized  his  throbbing,  music-filled 
bosom.  He  swung  gracefully  to  the  ground,  picked 
up  a fragment  of  newspaper,  leaped  up  to  his  perch 
again,  and  then,  holding  the  paper  harp  in  his  beak, 
resumed  his  song  with  more  vigor  than  before.  All 
the  while  his  beady  eyes  sparkled  with  good-natured 
raillery,  as  if  he  expected  me  to  laugh  at  his  unique 
performance ; and,  of  course,  I was  able  to  accom- 
modate him  without  half  an  effort.  An  errant  gust 
of  wind  suddenly  wrenched  the  bit  of  paper  from 
his  bill  and  bore  it  to  the  ground.  The  minstrel 
darted  after,  and  straightway  recovered  his  elusive 
prize,  flew  up  to  his  perch,  and  again  roused  the 
echoes  of  woodland  and  vale  with  his  rollicking 
song,  the  paper  harp  imparting  a peculiar  resonance 
to  his  tones ; while  his  air  of  banter  seemed  to 
challenge  me  to  a musical  contest.  I laughingly 
declined  in  the  interest  of  my  own  reputation. 

He  was  one  of  the  choicest  minstrels  of  bird  land 
I have  ever  heard,  — barring  the  sex,  a Jenny  Lind 
or  an  Adelina  Patti,  — his  voice  being  of  excellent 
timbre , his  tones  pure  and  liquid,  and  his  technical 


26 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


execution  almost  perfect.  Ever  since  that  day  I 
have  been  the  avowed  friend  of  the  catbird,  — in 
truth,  his  champion,  ready  at  any  moment,  in 
season  and  out,  to  take  up  the  glove  in  his  defence 
against  every  assailant.  Some  very  self-conscious 
human  performers  — people  who  themselves  live  in 
glass  houses  — have  accused  him  of  singing  to  be 
heard,  making  him  out  vain  and  ambitious.  Well, 
what  if  he  does?  Why  do  his  human  compeers 
sing  or  speak  or  write  ? Certainly  not  purely  for 
their  own  delectation,  but  also,  in  part  at  least,  to 
catch  the  appreciative  ear  and  eye  of  the  public,  and 
win  a bit  of  applause.  “ Let  him  that  is  without  sin 
among  you  first  cast  a stone.”  He  who  scoffs  at 
my  plumbeous-hued  choralist  makes  me  his  enemy, 

— not  the  choralist’s,  but  the  scoffer’s.  So  let  the 
latter  beware  ! 

I leave  the  cat-bird,  however,  to  his  own  resources 

— he  is  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself  — to  tell 
what  the  birds  were  doing  during  a recent  spring, 
which  fought  in  a very  desultory  manner  its  battle 
with  the  north  winds.  Special  attention  is  called  to 
the  laggard  character  of  the  season  because  a tardy 
spring  is  a sore  ordeal  to  the  student  of  bird  life, 
postponing  many  of  his  most  longed-for  investiga- 
tions. The  spring  to  which  I refer  (1892)  was  pro- 
vokingly  slow  in  its  approach,  and  yet  it  developed 
some  traits  of  bird  character  that  were  interesting. 
For  instance,  the  first  week  in  April  was  a seducer, 
being  quite  bland,  starting  the  buds  on  many  trees, 
and  putting  the  migrating  fever  into  the  veins  of  a 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


27 


number  of  species  of  birds.  But  the  snow-storms 
and  fierce  northern  blasts  that  came  later  were  very 
hard  on  both  birds  and  buds.  Many  a chorus  was 
sung  during  the  pleasant  weather,  but  on  more  than 
one  day  afterward  the  cheerful  voices  of  the  feathered 
choir  were  hushed,  while  the  songsters  themselves 
sought  refuge  from  the  storm  in  every  available 
nook,  where  they  sat  shivering.  One  cannot  always 
repress  the  interrogatory  why  Nature  so  frequently 
stirs  hopes  only  to  blast  them ; but  it  is  not  the 
business  of  the  empirical  observer  to  question  her 
motives  or  her  manners,  — rather  to  study  her  as 
she  is,  without  asking  why. 

Cold  as  April  was,  some  birds  were  hardy  enough 
to  go  to  nest-building.  Among  these  were  the  robins, 
whose  blushing  bosoms  could  be  seen  everywhere  in 
grove  and  field.  On  the  seventh  of  the  month  a 
robin  was  carrying  grass  fibres  to  a half- finished  nest 
in  the  woodland  near  my  house.  A week  later  she 
was  sitting  on  the  nest,  hugging  her  eggs  close 
beneath  her  warm  bosom,  while  the  tempests  howled 
mercilessly  about  her  roofless  homestead.  It  seemed 
to  me,  one  cold  morning  after  a snow-storm,  that  her 
body  shivered  as  she  sat  there,  and  I feared  more 
than  once  that  she  would  freeze  to  death ; but  no 
such  fatality  befell  her,  and  she  resolutely  kept  her 
seat  in  her  adobe  cottage. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  a bird  tragedy  described 
to  me  by  a professor  in  the  college  located  in  my 
town.  He  said  that  a number  of  years  ago  a robin 
built  a nest  in  a tree  not  far  from  the  site  on  which 


28 


IN  BIRD  LAND, 


some  workmen  were  erecting  a new  college  building. 
In  May  a very  fierce  snow-storm  came.  One  day 
the  workmen  noticed  a half-dozen  robins  darting 
about  the  nest  on  which  the  hatching  bird  sat,  flying 
at  her  with  sharp  cries,  striking  her  with  their  wings, 
and  making  use  of  various  other  devices  to  dislodge 
her  from  the  nest.  They  seemed  to  realize  that  she 
was  in  peril  of  her  life  through  long  inactivity  and 
exposure  to  the  cold.  But  their  efforts  were  unsuc- 
cessful : she  would  not  leave  her  nest ; her  eggs  or 
young  must  have  her  care  at  whatever  cost.  How- 
ever, the  poor  bird  paid  dearly  for  her  devotion. 
The  next  morning  — the  night  had  been  very  cold 
— the  workmen  found  her  dead  upon  the  nest. 
My  informant  vouches  for  the  truthfulness  of  the 
story,  and  says  that  he  himself  saw  the  faithful 
mother  on  the  nest  after  she  had  been  frozen  stiff. 

On  the  twentieth  of  April  I saw  another  robin 
sitting  close  on  her  nest,  which  was  built  on  a 
horizontal  branch  of  a willow-tree,  not  more  than 
eight  feet  from  the  ground.  The  raw  east  wind 
lifted  the  feathers  on  her  back,  as  if  determined  to 
creep  through  her  thick  clothing  to  the  sensitive 
skin.  A few  days  earlier  a blue  jay  was  seen  carry- 
ing lumber  to  her  partly  erected  nursery  in  the 
crotch  of  an  oak-tree.  A pair  of  bluebirds,  sigh- 
ing out  their  sorrows  and  joys,  began  building  in 
one  of  my  bird-boxes  during  the  pleasant  early  April 
weather ; but  when  the  cold  spell  came,  they  wisely 
suspended  operations  until  the  storms  were  overpast 
and  they  could  proceed  with  safety.  A killdeer 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


29 


plover’s  nest  was  found  by  my  farmer  neighbor  on 
the  ninth  of  April.  It  was  on  the  ground  in  an 
open  field,  with  not  so  much  as  a spear  of  grass  for 
protection. 

That  year  the  crow  blackbirds  arrived  from  the 
south  in  February,  all  bedecked  in  holiday  attire, 
the  rich  purple  of  their  necks  scintillating  in  the 
sunshine.  You  have  perhaps  observed  the  droll  an- 
tics of  these  birds  as  they  sing  their  guttural  O-gl-ee. 
It  is  amusing  to  see  them  fluff  up  their  feathers, 
spread  out  their  wings  and  tails,  bend  their  heads 
forward  and  downward  with  a spasmodic  movement, 
and  then  emit  that  queer,  gurgling,  half-musical 
note.  It  would  seem  that  the  little  they  sing  re- 
quires a superhuman  — more  precisely,  perhaps,  a 
super-avian  — effort,  coming  aqueously,  one  might 
almost  say,  from  some  deep  fountain  in  their  wind- 
pipes. These  contortions  do  not  invariably  accom- 
pany their  vocal  performances,  but  certainly  occur 
quite  frequently.  The  red-wings  also  often  behave 
in  a like  manner ; and  both  species  always  spread 
out  their  tails  like  a fan  when  they  sing,  whether 
they  fluff  up  their  plumes  and  twist  their  necks  or 
not. 

Another  bit  of  bird  behavior  gave  me  not  a little 
surprise  during  the  same  spring.  It  started  this 
query  in  my  mind  : Is  the  white-breasted  nuthatch 
a sap-sucker?  It  has  been  proved  by  Mr.  Burroughs 
and  Mr.  Frank  Bolles,  I think,  that  the  yellow- 
bellied  woodpecker  is.  But  how  about  the  frisky 
nuthatch,  so  versatile  in  ways  and  means?  Here  is 


3° 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


an  incident.  One  day  I saw  a nuthatch  thrusting 
his  slender  bill  into  a hole  in  the  bark  of  a young 
hickory-tree.  Nuthatches  often  hunt  for  grubs  in 
that  way,  but  something  about  this  fellow’s  conduct 
prompted  me  to  watch  him  closely  for  some  minutes. 
He  bent  over  the  hole  with  a lingering  movement, 
as  if  sipping  something.  Presently  I slowly  ap- 
proached the  tree,  keeping  my  eye  intent  on  the 
bird. 

Of  course,  he  flew  away  on  my  approach,  but 
my  eye  was  never  taken  from  the  spot  to  which  he 
had  been  clinging.  Being  forced  to  climb  the  trunk 
of  the  tree  a few  feet,  what  discovery  do  you  sup- 
pose awaited  me?  There  was  a small  hole  pierced 
through  the  bark  from  which  the  sap  was  flowing 
down  the  crannies,  and  into  that  fount  the  little  was- 
sailer  had  been  thrusting  his  bill,  with  a sort  of  lin- 
gering motion,  precisely  as  if  he  had  been  sipping 
the  sweet  liquor.  The  evidence  was  sufficient  to 
convince  me  that  he  had  been  doing  this  very  un- 
orthodox thing.  The  real  sap-suckers,  no  doubt, 
had  dug  the  well,  for  there  were  a number  of  them 
in  the  woods,  and  the  nuthatch  had  been  stealing 
the  nectar.  Perhaps,  however,  I wrong  him ; he 
may  have  asked  permission  of  the  owner  to  drink 
from  the  saccharine  fountain. 

The  next  autumn  I took  occasion  to  pry  into  the 
affairs  of  my  beloved  intimates  of  the  woods,  and  had 
more  than  one  surprise.  Some  species  of  birds,  like 
some  other  animals,  lay  by  a supply  of  food  for 
winter,  proving  that  they  do  take  some  thought  for 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


31 


the  morrow.  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  this  pro- 
vident care  is  displayed  only  by  those  birds  that  are 
winter  residents  in  our  more  northern  latitudes.  I 
have  never  seen  any  of  the  vast  company  of  migrants 
making  such  provision  for  the  proverbial  rainy  day ; 
and,  indeed,  it  would  be  unnecessary.  To  them  suf- 
ficient unto  the  day  is  the  care  as  well  as  the  evil 
thereof,  and  so  they  take  their  “ daily  bread  ” as 
they  happen  to  find  it. 

Our  winter  residents,  however,  are  more  thrifty, 
as  I have  observed  again  and  again.  Here  is  an 
instance  which  once  came  under  my  eye.  While 
sauntering  along  the  border  of  the  woods  one  day  in 
September,  I noticed  several  nuthatches  and  black- 
capped  titmice  busily  gathering  seeds  from  a clump 
of  sunflower  stalks,  and  flying  with  them  to  the  trees 
near  by.  I found  a seat  and  watched  them  for  a 
long  while.  A nuthatch  would  dart  over  to  a sun- 
flower stalk,  cry,  Yak  ! yak  ! in  his  familiar  way,  as  if 
talking  affectionately  to  himself,  deftly  pick  out  a seed 
from  its  encasement,  fly  with  it  to  the  trunk  of  an 
oak-tree,  and  then  thrust  it  into  a crevice  of  the 
bark  with  his  long  slender  beak.  He  would  then 
hurry  back  for  another  seed,  which  he  would  treat 
in  the  same  way. 

The  behavior  of  one  of  these  little  toilers  was 
especially  interesting.  By  mistake  he  pushed  a 
seed  into  a cranny  which  seemed  to  be  too  deep  for 
his  purpose,  and  so  he  proceeded  in  his  vigorous 
way  to  pry  and  chisel  it  out.  He  seemed  to  say  to 
himself : “ That  would  be  too  hard  to  dig  out  on  a 


32 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


cold  winter  day ; I think  I ’d  better  get  it  out  now.’' 
When  he  had  secured  it,  he  put  it  into  another 
crevice,  which  also  proved  too  deep ; and  so  his 
dainty  had  to  be  recovered  once  more.  The  third 
attempt,  however,  proved  a charm,  for  that  time  he 
found  a little  pocket  just  to  his  liking.  To  make 
very  sure  he  did  not  eat  the  seed,  I did  not  take  my 
eye  from  him  for  a single  moment.  The  fact  is, 
during  the  entire  time  spent  in  watching  the  birds,  I 
did  not  see  them  eat  a single  seed.  The  titmice  flew 
farther  into  the  woods  with  their  winter  “ goodies,” 
where  the  foliage  was  so  dense,  while  the  birds  were 
so  quick  in  movement,  that  it  was  impossible  to  see 
just  where  they  hid  their  store ; but  they  returned 
too  soon  for  a new  supply  to  allow  time  for  eating 
the  seeds. 

One  autumn  I spent  a week  in  a part  of  Ken- 
tucky where  beechnuts  were  very  plentiful,  and  saw 
the  hairy  and  red- headed  woodpeckers  putting 
away  their  hoard  of  “ mast  ” for  the  winter,  indus- 
trious husbandmen  that  they  were.  A farmer  said 
that  he  had  often  seen  the  woodpeckers  carrying 
these  nuts  to  a hole  in  a tree  and  dropping  them 
into  it.  He  once  found  such  a winter  store  that 
must  have  contained  fully  a quart  of  beechnuts.  In 
my  own  neighborhood  the  hairy  woodpecker  often 
hides  tidbits  in  gullies  of  the  bark,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  nuthatch.  The  crested  tit  also  stows 
corn  and  various  kinds  of  seeds  in  some  safe  niche 
for  a time  of  exigency.  Several  times  in  the  winter, 
when  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  I have 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


33 


surprised  this  bird  eating  a corn  grain  in  the  very 
depth  of  the  woods,  a considerable  distance  from 
the  neighboring  cornfields. 

One  winter  day  a nuthatch  picked  three  grains  of 
corn  in  succession  from  the  fissures  of  an  oak,  and 
greedily  devoured  them.  On  another  occasion  one 
of  these  nuthatches  was  seen  diving  into  a hole  on 
the  under  side  of  a limb.  Presently  he  emerged 
with  a nut  of  some  kind  in  his  bill,  and  flew  away, 
remaining  just  about  long  enough  to  eat  it,  when  he 
returned  for  another.  This  he  repeated  until  his 
dinner  was  finished. 

No  doubt,  when  cold  and  stormy  weather  comes, 
these  birds  have  many  a luscious  mouthful  because 
of  their  forehandedness,  and  no  doubt  they  enjoy 
their  well-kept  stores  as  much  as  the  farmer  and  his 
family  relish  their  dish  of  mellow  apples  around  the 
glowing  hearth  on  a winter  evening.  It  is  no  fancy 
flight,  but  a literal  truth,  that  many  a niche  and 
cleft  is  made  to  do  duty  as  larder  for  the  feathered 
and  furred  tenants  of  the  woods. 

With  the  birds  that  migrate,  autumn  is  the  season 
for  gathering  in  large  convocations,  holding  “ windy 
congresses  in  trees,”  as  Lowell  aptly  puts  it.  The 
aerial  movements  of  some  of  these  feathered  armies 
are  often  worthy  of  observation.  Memory  lingers 
fondly  about  a day  in  autumn  when  two  friends  and 
myself  were  clambering  up  the  side  of  a steep  hill 
or  ridge  that  bounded  a green  hollow  on  the  south. 
We  had  gone  half-way  to  the  top  when  we  turned 
to  admire  the  panorama  spread  out  picturesquely 
3 


34 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


before  us.  Our  exclamations  of  pleasure  at  the 
scene  were  soon  interrupted  by  a shadow  hurtling 
across  the  hollow,  and  on  looking  up,  we  saw  a vast 
army  of  crow  blackbirds  sweeping  overhead,  moving 
about  fifty  abreast.  How  long  the  column  was  I 
cannot  say,  but  it  extended  over  the  hollow  from 
hilltop  to  hilltop  and  some  distance  beyond  in  both 
directions.  The  odd  feature  about  the  ebon  army’s 
evolutions  was  this  : The  vanguard  had  gone  on  far 
beyond  the  ravine,  and  was  pushing  over  the  oppo- 
site ridge,  when  there  was  a peculiar  swaying  move- 
ment near  the  centre  directly  above  the  hollow ; 
then  that  part  of  the  column  dropped  gracefully 
downward  toward  the  trees  below  them ; at  the 
same  moment  those  in  the  van  swung  lightly  around 
to  the  right  and  returned,  while  the  rear  part  of 
the  column  advanced  rapidly,  and  then  all  swept 
grandly  down  into  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees  in  the 
ravine.  It  was  a splendid  military  pageant,  and 
might  well  start  several  queries  in  the  interrogative 
mind.  Where  was  the  commander-in  chief  of  that 
sable  army?  Was  he  near  the  centre  of  the 
column?  If  so,  why  should  he  station  himself 
there  instead  of  at  the  head?  Again,  how  could 
the  message  to  return  be  sent  so  speedily  to  the 
vanguard  ? Do  birds  employ  some  occult  method 
of  telegraphy?  But  these  are  questions  more  easily 
asked  than  answered ; for  no  one,  so  far  as  I know, 
has  yet  given  special  attention  to  the  military  tactics 
of  the  armies  in  feathers. 

It  may  be  a somewhat  abrupt  transition  from  a 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


35 


crowd  to  an  individual,  but  the  reader  must  bear 
in  mind  that  a close  logical  unity  cannot  be  pre- 
served in  a chapter  composed  of  bric-a-brac;  and, 
besides,  is  not  every  crowd  made  up  of  individuals  ? 
How  great  was  my  surprise,  one  summer  day,  to 
see  a purple  grackle  stalking  about  in  his  regal 
manner  on  the  flat  rocks  of  a shallow  woodland 
stream,  and  then  suddenly  wheel  about,  pull  a crab 
out  of  the  water,  and  fly  off  with  it  to  a log,  where 
he  beat  it  to  pieces  and  devoured  it ! I doubt  if 
many  persons  are  aware  that  this  bird  dines  on 
crab.  On  the  same  day  another  grackle,  striding 
pompously  about  in  the  shallow  water,  suddenly 
sprang  up  into  the  air,  some  six  or  eight  feet,  and 
caught  an  insect  on  the  wing.  This  was  a perform- 
ance on  the  part  of  a crow  blackbird  never  before 
witnessed  by  me. 

One  day  in  the  woods  my  saucy  little  madcap, 
the  crested  titmouse,  was  tilting  about  on  the  twigs 
of  a sapling  like  a trapeze  performer  in  a circus. 
Sometimes  he  hung  lightly  to  the  under  side  of  a 
spray,  and  pecked  nits  and  other  dainties  from  the 
lower  surface  of  a leaf.  While  doing  so,  he  hap- 
pened to  catch  sight  of  an  insect  buzzing  by ; he 
flung  himself  at  it  like  a feathered  arrow ; but  for 
some  reason  he  missed  his  mark,  and  the  insect,  in 
its  efforts  to  escape,  let  itself  drop  toward  the 
ground.  An  interesting  scuffle  followed ; the  tit- 
mouse whirled  around  and  around,  dashing  this  way 
and  that  like  zigzag  lightning,  in  hot  pursuit,  flutter- 
ing his  wings  very  rapidly  until  he  alighted  on  the 


36 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


ground  on  the  dry  leaves,  where  he  at  last  succeeded 
in  capturing  his  prize.  He  gulped  it  down  with  a 
sly  wink,  as  much  as  to  say : “ Was  n’t  that  a clever 
trick,  sir?  Beat  it  if  you  can  ! ” Then  he  picked 
up  a seed  and  flew  with  it  to  a twig  in  a dogwood 
sapling,  where  he  placed  it  under  his  claws,  holding 
it  firmly  as  he  nibbled  it  with  his  stout  little  beak. 
His  meal  finished,  he  suddenly  pretended  to  be 
greatly  alarmed  at  something,  called  loudly,  Chick , 
chick-a-da  ! chick-a- da-da  ! and  darted  away  like 
an  Indian’s  arrow. 

On  the  same  day  a golden-crowned  kinglet  — my 
Lilliputian  of  the  woods  — surprised  me  by  drop- 
ping from  a twig  above  me  to  the  ground,  right  at 
my  feet,  passing  within  two  or  three  inches  of  my 
face.  Quick  as  a flash  he  leaped  to  a sapling  before 
me,  and  I saw  that  he  held  a worm  in  his  tiny  bill. 
Of  course,  that  was  the  prize  for  which  he  had 
dashed  in  such  a headlong  way  to  the  ground. 

Few  birds  have  charmed  me  more  than  the  jolly 
red-headed  woodpecker,  and  many  a quaint  antic 
has  he  performed  with  all  the  nonchalance  of  a sage 
or  a stoic.  He  has  a queer  way  of  taking  his  meals. 
The  first  time  it  came  to  my  notice  I was  walking 
home,  on  a hot  summer  day,  along  a railway,  when 
a red-head  bounded  across  the  track  before  me, 
holding  a ripe,  blood-red  cherry  in  his  beak.  He 
made  a handsome  picture  with  his  pure  white  and 
velvety  black  coat  and  vest,  his  crimson  cap  and 
collar,  and  his  — here  my  tropes  fail,  and  I am 
forced  to  become  literal  — long,  black  beak,  tipped 


BIRD  CURIOS . 


37 


with  the  scarlet  berry.  Swinging  gracefully  across 
the  railway,  he  presently  alighted  on  a stake  of  the 
meadow  fence,  where  he  seemed  to  place  the  cherry 
in  a sort  of  crevice,  and  then  sip  from  it  in  a 
somewhat  dainty,  half-caressing  way,  as  if  it  were 
rarely  billsome.  My  curiosity  being  excited,  I eyed 
him  awhile,  and  then,  determined  to  reconnoitre, 
climbed  the  wire  fence  over  into  the  meadow,  and 
drove  him  away  from  his  menu.  There,  in  a small 
pocket  of  the  fence-stake,  apparently  hollowed  out, 
at  least  partially,  by  the  bird  himself,  lay  the  cherry, 
its  rind  punctured  in  several  places,  where  the 
diner-out  had  thrust  in  his  bill  to  sip  the  juicy  pulp 
underneath,  — a sort  of  woodpecker’s  table  d'hote . 
The  crevice  had  a rank  odor  of  cherries  dried  in 
the  sun,  — a proof  that  it  had  been  used  for  a 
dining-table  for  some  time.  The  legs  and  wings 
of  several  kinds  of  insects  were  also  strewn  about. 
Since  that  day  I have  found  many  of  these  pockets 
in  fence-stakes,  posts,  dead  tree-boles,  and  old 
stumps,  where  woodpeckers  have  placed  their 
dainties  to  be  eaten  at  their  convenience. 

You  have  doubtless  seen  these  red-heads  catching 
insects  on  the  wing.  This  they  do  with  as  much 
agility  as  the  wood-pewee,  sometimes  performing 
evolutions  that  are  little  short  of  marvellous.  From 
my  study  window  I once  watched  one  of  these 
aeronauts  as  he  sprang  from  the  top  of  a tall  oak- 
tree  in  the  grove  near  by,  and  mounted  up,  up,  up 
in  graceful  terraces  of  flight,  until  he  had  climbed 
at  least  twice  the  height  of  the  tree,  when  he  sud- 


38 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


denly  stopped,  poised  a moment  airily,  wheeled 
about,  and  plunged  downward  headlong  with  a 
swiftness  that  made  my  head  swim,  closing  the  de- 
scent with  a series  of  bounds,  as  if  he  were  going 
down  an  aerial  stairway.  Whether  he  performed 
this  feat  in  pursuit  of  an  insect,  or  to  display  his 
skill,  or  only  to  give  vent  to  his  exuberance  of 
feeling,  I am  unable  to  say. 

The  red-head  has  an  odd  way  of  taking  a bath 
during  a light  shower,  which  he  does  by  clinging 
lengthwise  to  an  upright  or  oblique  branch,  fluffing 
up  his  plumes  as  much  as  possible,  and  then  flapping 
his  wings  slowly  back  and  forth,  thus  allowing  the 
refreshing  drops  thoroughly  to  percolate  and  rinse 
his  handsome  feathers.  And,  by  the  way,  the  subject 
of  bird  baths  is  one  of  no  small  degree  of  interest 
to  the  ogler  of  the  feathered  creation.  It  has  been 
my  good  fortune  to  see  a brilliant  company  of 
warblers  of  various  species  — lyrics  in  color,  one 
might  call  them  — performing  their  ablutions  at  a 
small  pond  in  the  woods.  How  their  iridescent 
hues  flashed  and  danced  in  the  sunshine,  as  they 
dipped  their  dainty  bosoms  into  the  water,  twinkled 
their  wings,  and  fluttered  their  tails,  sending  the 
spray  like  pearl-mist  into  the  air  ! One  sylvan  pic- 
ture like  that  is  worth  many  a mile’s  tramping. 

I once  saw  several  myrtle  warblers  taking  a dew- 
bath.  Do  you  wonder  how  they  did  it?  They 
leaped  from  a twig  in  the  trees  upon  the  dew-covered 
leaves,  — it  was  early  morning,  — and  fluttered  about 
until  their  plumes  were  thoroughly  drenched,  then 


BIRD  CURIOS. 


39 


flitted  to  a perch  to  dry  their  bedraggled  feathers 
and  carefully  arrange  their  dainty  toilets.1 

Besides,  it  has  been  my  chance  to  witness  my 
little  confidant,  Bewick’s  wren,  taking  a dust-bath, 
which  he  did  in  this  manner : he  would  squat  flat 
on  his  belly  on  the  ground  in  the  lane,  completely 
hiding  his  feet,  and  then  glide  about  rapidly  and 
smoothly  over  the  little  undulations,  stirring  the  dust 
in  volatile  cloudlets.  Never  have  I seen  any  per- 
formance, even  in  the  bird  realm  so  varied  and 
versatile,  more  absolutely  charming ; so  charming, 
indeed,  that  I believe  my  brief  description  of  it 
will  fittingly  bring  this  rambling  chapter  on  “ Bird 
Curios  ” to  a close. 

1 Long  after  this  statement  had  appeared  in  print,  Mr. 
Bradford  Torrey  described,  in  the  “ Atlantic  Monthly,”  a 
similar  performance  which  he  witnessed  in  Florida;  and, 
rather  oddly,  myrtle  warblers  were  also  the  actors  in  this 
instance. 


40 


IN  BIND  LAND . 


III. 

WINTER  FROLICS. 

HAD  Mr.  Lowell  never  written  anything  but 
“A  Good  Word  for  Winter,’’  he  would  still 
have  deserved  a place  in  the  front  rank  of  American 
writers.  What  a genuine  appreciation  of  Nature, 
even  in  her  sterner  and  more  unfriendly  moods, 
breathes  in  every  line  of  his  manfully  written  mono- 
graph ! Blessed  be  the  man  whose  love  for  Nature 
is  so  leal  and  deeply  rooted  that  he  can  say,  “ Even 
though  she  slay  me,  yet  will  I trust  in  her  ! ” When 
the  storm  howls  dismally,  and  the  icy  gusts  strike 
you  rudely  in  the  face ; when  the  cold  rain  or  sleet 
pelts  you  spitefully ; when,  in  short,  Nature  seems 
to  frown  and  scold  and  bluster,  — the  loyal  lover 
of  her  feels  no  waning  of  affection,  but  knows  that 
beneath  all  her  bluster  and  apparent  harshness  she 
carries  a tender,  maternal  heart  in  her  bosom  that 
responds  to  his  wooing.  No,  Thomson  is  in  error 
when  he  says  that  winter  is  the  “ inverted  year.” 
Winter,  as  well  as  summer,  is  the  year  right  end  up, 
standing  squarely  on  its  feet ; or,  if  it  does  some- 
times turn  a somersault,  it  quickly  wheels  about 
again  into  an  upright  position.  Nor  is  Cotton’s 
dictum  correct  that  winter  is  “ our  mortal  enemy.” 


WINTER  FROLICS . 


41 

It  has  been  much  misunderstood,  and  therefore 
much  abused,  for  there  are  persons  who  will  ever 
and  anon  malign  that  which  is  above  their  com- 
prehension. 

It  is  just  possible  that  the  weather  may  sometimes 
become  too  cold  in  the  winter  for  open-air  exercise  ; 
but  the  winter  of  1890-1891,  with  its  occasional 
snow-storms,  its  alternating  days  of  rain  and  clear 
sunshine,  was  an  almost  ideal  one  for  the  rambler. 
There  were  times  when  the  woods  were  clad  in 
robes  more  beautiful  than  the  green  of  spring  or 
the  brown  of  autumn ; when  I was  compelled  to 
exclaim  with  a Scottish  poet,  — 

“ Now  is  the  time 

To  visit  Nature  in  her  grand  attire.” 

I mean  those  days  when  every  twig  and  branch 
was  “ ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl,”  making  the 
woodland  a perfect  network  of  marble  shafts  and 
columns. 

As  to  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  woods,  they 
were  almost  as  light-hearted  and  gay  as  in  the 
season  'of  sunshine  and  flowers,  save  that  they  were 
not  so  prolific  of  song.  Quite  a number  of  interest- 
ing species  were  the  constant  companions  of  my 
winter  loiterings,  and  several  of  them  occasionally 
regaled  me  with  snatches  of  melody.  Among  our 
winter  songsters  is  the  hardy  Carolina  wren.  On 
December  and  January  days  when  the  weather  was 
quite  cold,  his  vigorous  bugle  echoed  through  the 
woods,  Chil-le-lu , chil-le-lu , or,  Che-wish-year , che- 


42 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


wish-year , giving  one  the  feeling  that  at  least  one 
brave  little  heart  was  not  discouraged  on  account 
of  the  dismal  moaning  of  the  wintry  storm.  He 
is  every  inch  a hero,  and  I wonder  Emerson  did 
not  celebrate  his  praise  as  well  as  that  of  the  black- 
capped  chickadee,  in  verse.  The  wren  is  somewhat 
more  of  a recluse  than  most  of  my  winter  intimates. 
He  has  not  been  quite  as  sociable  as  I should  have 
liked.  Whether  it  was  modesty  or  selfishness  that 
made  him  a sort  of  eremite  could  not  be  deter- 
mined. Most  of  his  contemporaries,  such  as  the 
chickadees,  kinglets,  nuthatches,  and  woodpeckers, 
prefer  to  go  in  straggling  flocks ; so  that,  as  soon 
as  I see  one  bird  or  hear  his  call,  I feel  sure  that  he 
is  simply  the  sentinel  of  a bevy  of  feathered  tilters 
and  coasters  at  my  elbow.  No,  they  do  not  believe 
in  monasteries  or  nunneries;  they  do  not  believe 
that  it  is  good  for  a bird  to  be  alone,  whatever  may 
be  said  of  man  or  woman.  Listen  to  that  kinglet, 
the  malapert,  hanging  head-downward  on  a spray 
and  making  his  disclaimer : “ No,  sir,  we  birds 

are  sociable  beings,  as  men  are,  and  like  to  hold 
commerce  with  one  another.  What  good  would  it 
do  to  sing  so  sweetly  or  tilt  so  gracefully  were 
there  no  auditors  or  spectators  to  admire  our  per- 
formances?” And  all  his  plumed  comrades  cry, 
“ Aye  ! aye  ! ” by  way  of  emphatic  endorsement. 

The  division  of  these  tenants  of  the  woods  into 
communities  or  colonies  is  a matter  of  unique 
interest  to  the  ornithologist.  For  instance,  there 
seemed  to  be  at  least  two  of  these  groups,  one 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


43 


dwelling  chiefly  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  woodland 
not  far  from  a farm-house,  and  the  other  occupying 
the  western  part.  Sometimes,  too,  another  com- 
munity was  found  in  the  partly  cleared  section  at 
the  northern  extremity  of  one  arm  of  the  timber 
belt.  These  several  groups  reminded  one  of  the 
nomadic  tribes  of  Oriental  countries,  who  rove 
from  one  locality  to  another  within  certain  loosely 
defined  boundaries.  True,  it  is  merely  a matter 
of  speculation ; but  I have  often  wondered  if  feuds 
and  jealousies  ever  arise  among  these  various 
feathered  tribes,  as  is  so  conspicuously  the  case  in 
the  human  world.  I doubt  it  very  much,  for  my 
woodland  birds  dwell  together  in  comparative 
harmony,  and  are  not  half  so  quarrelsome  and 
envious  as  many  communities  of  men  and  women. 
Bird  nature  is  evidently  not  so  depraved  as  human 
nature.  Perhaps,  as  the  birds  had  no  direct  hand 
in  the  first  transgression,  the  curse  did  not  fall  so 
blightingly  upon  them. 

My  western  bird  colony  were  somewhat  erratic 
in  their  movements.  During  December  and  the 
first  week  in  January  I found  them  almost  invari- 
ably in  a secluded  part  of  the  woods  about  half-way 
between  the  northern  and  southern  extremities ; 
but  when,  about  the  middle  or  possibly  the  twen- 
tieth of  January,  I visited  the  haunt,  not  a bird  of 
any  description  could  be  found.  Had  all  of  them 
gone  to  other  climes?  I felt  a pang  as  the  thought 
came.  But  there  was  no  occasion  for  solicitude. 
Near  the  southern  terminus  of  the  woods,  although 


44 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


still  in  a dense  portion  of  them,  the  colony  had 
taken  up  a temporary  abode.  Here  they  remained 
for  over  a week,  and  then,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  the 
month,  which  was  a rainy  day,  they  shifted  back  to 
their  old  tryst,  while  scarcely  a bird  was  to  be  found 
in  the  locality  they  had  just  left.  Thus  by  caprice, 
or  on  account  of  the  exigencies  of  food,  they  oscil- 
lated from  place  to  place. 

There  were  some  birds  here  all  winter  that  were 
not  found  during  the  previous  winter  — that  of 
1889-1890.  The  golden-crowned  kinglet  was  one. 
Every  day,  rain  or  shine,  warm  or  cold,  he  flitted 
about  so  cheerfully  and  with  so  innocent  an  air 
that  I often  spoke  to  him  as  if  he  were  a real 
person;  and  he  appreciated  my  words  of  praise, 
too,  without  doubt,  for  he  would  come  scurrying 
near,  disporting  his  head  so  that  I could  catch  the 
gleam  of  his  amber  coronal,  with  its  golden  patch 
for  a centre-piece.  Then  there  was  that  quaint 
little  genius,  the  brown  creeper,  hugging  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  and  saplings,  and  tracing  the  gullies  of 
the  bark  as  he  sought  for  such  food  as  he  relished. 
See  him  turn  his  cunning  head  from  side  to  side  to 
peer  under  a loose  scale  ! 

Among  my  most  pleasant  winter  companions  were 
the  black-capped  chickadees  or  tomtits.  Not  for 
anything  would  I cast  a reflection  upon  these  en- 
gaging birds,  but  candor  compels  me  to  say  that 
they  seem  to  be  somewhat  fickle ; that  is,  I cannot 
always  tell  where  to  find  them,  or  if  they  will  let 
themselves  be  found  at  all.  Early  in  the  spring  of 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


45 


last  year  they  made  their  appearance  in  these  woods, 
remaining  a week  or  more,  and  then  were  not  seen 
until  about  the  middle  of  August.  Again  they  dis- 
appeared, returning  in  October,  and  then  hied  away 
once  more  and  did  not  come  back  until  January. 
Besides,  at  one  time  they  associated  with  the  eastern 
colony  of  birds  and  at  another  with  the  western. 
Like  some  “ featherless  bipeds,  ” — Lowell’s  expres- 
sion,— they  seemed  to  be  of  a roving  disposition. 
A winter  ago  they  occasionally  stirred  the  elves  and 
brownies  of  the  woodland  into  transports  by  their 
sweet,  sad  minor  whistle,  but  this  winter  they  were 
provokingly  chary  of  their  musical  performances. 

For  ever-presentness,  however,  both  summer  and 
winter,  the  crested  titmice  and  white-breasted  nut- 
hatches bear  off  the  palm.  Many  droll  tricks  they 
perform.  One  day  in  January  a titmouse  scurried 
from  the  ground  into  a sapling;  he  held  a large 
grain  of  corn  between  his  mandibles,  and,  after 
flitting  about  a few  moments,  hopped  to  a dead 
branch  that  lay  across  the  twigs,  and  deftly  pushed 
the  grain  into  the  end  of  the  bough.  I stepped 
closer,  when  he  tried  to  secure  the  hidden  morsel ; 
but  my  presence  frightened  him  away,  and  I climbed 
the  sapling,  drew  the  broken  branch  toward  me, 
and  peered  into  the  splintered  end  ; yes,  there  was 
the  grain  of  corn  wedged  firmly  into  a crevice.  The 
provident  little  fellow  ! He  had  secreted  the  morsel 
for  a stormy  day  when  it  would  be  impossible  . to 
procure  food  on  the  ground.  If  Solomon  had 
watched  these  thrifty,  industrious  birds,  as  they 


46 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


pursue  their  untiring  quest  for  food,  he  doubtless 
would  have  written  in  his  Proverbs  : “ Go  to  the 
titmouse,  thou  sluggard ; consider  his  ways,  and  be 
wise.” 

Associated  with  the  titmice,  kinglets,  and  nut- 
hatches were  the  downy  woodpeckers,  which  belong 
to  the  artisan  family  of  the  bird  community,  being 
hammerers,  drillers,  and  chisellers  all  combined. 
They  pursue  their  chosen  calling  most  sedulously. 
“ What ’s  the  use  of  having  a vocation  if  you  don’t 
follow  it?”  you  may  almost  hear  them  say  as  they 
cant  their  heads  to  one  side  and  peep  under  the 
bark  for  a tidbit,  or  hammer  vigorously  at  a crevice 
in  which  a worm  is  embedded.  The  hairy  wood- 
peckers, which  are  somewhat  larger,  are  more  erratic 
in  their  movements,  none  having  been  seen  from 
the  autumn  until  the  latter  part  of  January.  At 
this  date  I heard  their  loud,  nervous  Chi-i-i-r-r , as 
they  dashed  from  tree  to  tree  apparently  in  great 
excitement. 

I cannot  forbear  contrasting  this  winter  with  the 
previous  one.  In  the  winter  of  1889-1890  the  song- 
sparrows  never  left  us  at  all,  but  sang  on  almost 
every  pleasant  day  when  I went  to  the  woods  or 
marsh ; but  this  winter,  which  was  somewhat  colder, 
they  went  to  other  climes,  and  left  the  fringes  of  the 
pools  and  the  thickets  in  the  swamp  tenantless, 
songless,  and  desolate.  In  1889-1890  the  cardinal 
grossbeaks  whistled  every  month,  making  the  woods 
ring  even  in  January ; this  winter  not  a single  note 
was  heard  from  their  resonant  throats.  I had  just 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


47 


begun  to  fear  that  the  pair  which  had  greeted 
me  so  frequently  the  previous  winter  had  been 
slaughtered  by  some  caterer  to  the  shameful  fashions 
of  the  day,  when,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  January, 
I was  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  them  in  company 
with  several  of  their  relatives  or  acquaintances  and 
a bevy  of  tree-sparrows.  Where  had  the  grossbeaks 
been  since  November?  And  if  they  had  gone  south, 
why  did  they  return  from  their  visit  so  early  in  the 
season?  Or  perhaps  a still  more  pertinent  inquiry 
would  be,  Why  had  they  gone  away  at  all?  It  is 
difficult,  however,  to  explain  grossbeak  caprice  or 
ratiocination. 

What  do  the  birds  do  when  it  rains?  No  doubt, 
when  the  rain  pours  in  torrents,  they  find  plenty 
of  coverts  in  the  thick  bushes  or  in  the  cavities 
of  trees ; but  when  the  rain  falls  gently,  and  I make 
my  way  to  their  haunts,  as  I often  do,  they  flit 
about  as  industriously  as  ever  in  their  quest  for 
food,  only  stopping  now  and  then  to  shake  the 
pearly  drops  from  their  water-proof  cloaks.  In 
such  humid  weather  the  wood-choppers  in  the  forest 
- — the  human  ones  — stop  their  work  and  seek 
shelter.  Not  so  these  feathered  workers,  who  gayly 
continue  their  playful  toil,  and  exclaim  exultingly, 
“Isn’t  this  a jolly  rain?” 

In  another  chapter  mention  has  been  made  of 
the  provident  habits  of  certain  birds,  especially  the 
titmice  and  nuthatches,  in  laying  by  a winter  store. 
As  if  to  confirm  what  has  been  said,  one  winter  day 
a nuthatch  went  scudding  up  and  down  the  trunk  of 


48 


IN  BIND  LAND. 


a large  oak-tree  at  the  border  of  the  woods.  Pres- 
ently he  cried,  Yank  / yank ! as  if  to  announce  a 
discovery.  Then  he  pecked  and  pried  with  all  his 
might,  until  at  length  he  drew  a grain  of  corn  out 
of  a crevice  of  the  bark,  placed  it  in  a shallow  pocket 
on  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  and  began  to  pick  it 
to  pieces,  swallowing  the  fragments  as  he  broke  them 
off.  When  this  grain  had  been  disposed  of,  he 
found  another,  and  then  another,  until  his  hunger 
seemed  to  be  appeased,  when  he  darted  off  into 
the  woods. 

Other  pedestrians  and  observers  may  differ  from 
me  both  in  temperament  and  habits,  but  to  my 
mind  nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  a 
ramble  in  a snow-storm.  Let  the  wind  blow  a gale 
from  the  west,  driving  the  cold  pellets  blindingly 
into  your  face,  and  trying  to  rob  you  of  your  over- 
coat and  cap ; yet,  if  you  have  the  spirit  of  the 
genuine  rambler,  your  blood  will  tingle  with  delight, 
as  well  as  with  a sense  of  masterly  overcoming,  as 
you  plod  along ; while  you  feel  that  every  fierce  gust 
that  strikes  you  is  only  one  of  Nature’s  love-taps, — 
a little  rough,  it  is  true,  but  for  that  very  reason  all 
the  more  expressive  of  affection.  Stalking  forth 
into  the  teeth  of  a winter  storm  develops  the  hardy 
traits  of  character,  and  puts  the  ingredients  from 
which  heroes  are  made  into  the  pulsing  veins. 
Many  a time,  as  I have  pushed  my  way  triumphantly 
through  the  pelting  wind,  I have  answered  with  a 
shout  of  joy  Emerson’s  vigorous  challenge,  — 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


49 


“ Come  see  the  north  wind’s  masonry. 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Carves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door.” 

My  winter  saunterings  have  never  been  solitary, 
although  often  taken  in  haunts  “ far  from  human 
neighborhood.”  The  birds  have  afforded  me  all 
the  companionship  I have  really  craved.  One  is 
never  lonely  when  one  can  see  the  flutter  of  a wing 
or  hear  the  calls  of  the  blithe  commoners  of  the 
wildwood.  When  your  soul  is  fretted  by  the  daily 
round  of  strifes  and  jealousies  in  the  human  world, 
you  can  hie  to  the  woods,  and  learn  a lesson  of  con- 
ciliation from  the  example  of  the  loving  fellowship 
that  exists  in  the  bird  community.  I have  often 
been  shamed  by  this  constant  display  of  amity 
among  many  feathered  folk,  when  I thought  of  the 
childish  bickerings  of  men  in  church  and  state. 

But  moralizing  aside,  I must  describe  the  behavior 
of  my  little  winter  friends,  the  tree-sparrows.  They 
are  the  hardiest  birds  that  spend  the  winter  in  my 
neighborhood,  disdaining  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
thick  woods  during  the  most  violent  snow-storm. 
Even  the  snowbirds,  whose  very  name  is  a synonym 
for  toughness,  are  glad  to  seek  a covert  in  some 
secluded  forest  nook ; but  the  tree-sparrows  choose 
the  clearing  at  the  border  of  the  woodland,  where 
the  wind  howls  loudest  and  blows  the  snow  in  wild 
eddies.  Here  they  revel  in  the  storm,  flitting  from 
twig  to  twig,  hopping  on  the  snow-covered  ground 
4 


5° 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


as  if  it  were  a carpet  of  down,  and  picking  seeds 
from  grass-stems  and  weed-stalks.  All  the  while 
they  keep  up  a cheerful  chirping,  as  if  to  express 
their  appreciation  of  the  pleasant  winter  weather. 

Strangest  of  all  is  their  wading  about  in  the  snow. 
It  makes  me  shiver  to  see  their  little  bare  feet  sink- 
ing into  the  icy  crystals,  and  I feel  disposed  to  offer 
them  my  warm  rubber  boots ; only  I know  they 
would  decline  the  proposal  with  scorn.  “ I am  no 
tenderfoot ! ” one  of  them  seems  to  say,  with  cunning 
literalness.  Their  dainty  tracks  in  the  snow  are 
suggestive,  and  give  to  the  thoughtful  observer  more 
than  one  clew  to  bird  cerebration.  Let  us  follow 
one  of  these  winding  pathways.  Here  a bird 
alighted,  his  feet  sinking  deep  into  the  cold  down ; 
then  he  hopped  along  to  this  tuft  of  grass,  where  he 
picked  a few  mouthfuls  of  seeds,  standing  up  to  his 
body  in  the  snow ; then  an  impulse  seized  him  to 
seek  another  feeding-place ; so  he  went  plunging 
through  the  drifts,  leaving,  at  regular  intervals,  the 
prints  of  his  two  tiny  feet  side  by  side,  while  his 
toes  traced  a slender  connecting  line  on  the  white 
surface  between  the  deeper  indentations.  But  here 
is  another  path.  What  impulse  seized  this  bird  to 
turn  back  like  a rabbit  on  his  track?  For  it  is 
evident  that  this  is  sometimes  done.  Then  here 
are  only  two  or  three  footprints,  showing  that  the 
bird  alighted  suddenly,  and  as  suddenly  yielded  to 
an  impulse  to  fly  up  again.  What  thought  struck 
him  just  at  that  moment  that  made  him  so  quickly 
change  his  mind  ? 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


51 

At  one  point  I traced  a path  which  bore  evidence 
of  having  been  used  a number  of  times  for  a long 
distance,  as  it  wound  here  and  there  in  an  ex- 
tremely sinuous  course  among  the  bushes  and  briers. 
Probably  it  was  a sparrow-trail,  if  not  a thoroughfare, 
and  had  been  used  by  many  birds.  In  more  than 
one  place  were  small  hollows  in  the  snow,  just  large 
enough  for  a bird’s  body  to  wallow  in.  Usually 
they  were  at  the  terminus  of  one  of  these  thorough- 
fares. Might  the  birds  have  tarried  there  to  take  a 
snow-bath?  I have  seen  birds  taking  pool-baths, 
shower-baths,  dew-baths,  and  dust-baths.  Who  will 
say  they  never  take  a snow-bath? 

Next  to  the  tree-sparrows,  the  juncos  delight  to 
hold  carnival  in  the  snow ; but  their  behavior  in  this 
element  is  somewhat  different : they  are  not  so  fond 
of  hopping  about  in  it,  and  do  not  plait  such  a net- 
work of  tracks  among  the  bushes.  They  will  fly 
from  a perch  directly  to  the  ground  near  a weed- 
stalk  or  other  cluster  of  dainties,  and  stand  quietly 
in  the  snow  up  to  their  little  bodies  while  they  take 
their  luncheon.  Sometimes  their  white  breasts  rest 
on  the  surface  of  the  snow,  or  in  a slight  depression 
of  it,  when  they  look  as  if  they  were  sitting  in  a nest 
of  crystals. 

The  eighth  of  January  was  a cold  day;  in  a little 
opening  in  the  midst  of  the  woods  was  a covey  of 
snowbirds,  and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  several 
of  them  stood  in  the  selfsame  tracks  in  the  snow,  so 
long  that  my  own  feet  actually  got  frost-bitten  while 
I watched  them,  although  I wore  three  pairs  of 


UNIVERSITY  Of 
KJ.1N01S  LIBRARY 


52 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


socks  — this  is  an  honest  confession  — and  a pair 
of  warm  rubber  boots.  More  than  that,  they  thrust 
their  beaks  into  the  snow  and  ate  of  it  quite  greedily. 
What  wonderful  reserves  of  caloric  must  be  wrapped 
up  in  their  small  bodies  to  enable  them  to  keep 
themselves  comfortable  in  winter  with  never  a 
mouthful  of  warm  victuals  or  drink  ! That  the  birds 
should  thrive  and  be  happy  in  the  spring  and 
summer  is  no  matter  of  surprise ; but  it  remains  for 
the  lover  of  out-door  life  in  the  winter  to  prove  that 
many  of  them  are  just  as  cheerful  and  content  when 
the  mercury  has  taken  a jaunt  to  some  point  far 
below  zero. 

The  student  of  Nature  cannot  always  be  in  the 
same  mood.  Indeed,  Nature  herself  is,  at  times,  as 
whimsical,  apparently,  as  the  human  heart.  There 
are  times  when  she  seems  quite  stolid,  keeping  her 
precious  secrets  all  to  herself,  as  if  her  lips  had 
been  hermetically  sealed.  With  all  your  coaxing  and 
hoaxing  and  flattery,  you  cannot  win  from  her  a re- 
sponse. Emerson,  in  one  of  his  poems,  speaks  about 
the  forms  of  Nature  dulling  the  edge  of  the  mind 
with  their  monotony ; and  this  sometimes  seems  to 
be  the  case.  Yet  I must  protest  at  once  that  it  is 
not  generally  true.  There  are  days  when  Nature 
fairly  bubbles  over  with  good  cheer,  and  grows  talk- 
ative and  even  confidential,  responding  to  every 
touch  of  the  rambler  as  a well-strung  harp  responds 
to  the  touch  of  a skilful  player.  It  is  difficult  to 
account  for  her  changeable  moods,  but  obviously 
they  are  not  always  to  be  traced  only  to  the  mind 
of  the  observer. 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


53 


During  the  winter  of  1891-1892  many  a tramp 
was  taken  to  the  homes  of  the  birds ; and  let  me 
whisper  that  there  were  days  when  even  they  seemed 
to  be  dull  and  commonplace.  That  is  a frank  con- 
cession for  a bird-lover  to  make,  but  it  is  the  truth. 
Sometimes  these  feathered  actors  have  behaved  in 
the  most  ordinary  way,  failing  to  perform  a single 
trick  that  I had  not  seen  a score  of  times  before,  and 
I have  actually  gone  home  without  making  a single 
entry  in  my  note-book.  But  it  has  not  always  been 
so.  There,  for  example,  was  the  twenty-second  of 
January  : what  an  eventful  day  it  was  ! The  morn- 
ing of  the  twenty-first  had  been  very  cold,  the  mer- 
cury having  sunk,  probably  in  a fit  of  despair,  to 
fourteen  degrees  below  zero.  During  the  day,  how- 
ever, the  weather  grew  considerably  warmer ; and 
when  the  twenty-second  came,  bright  and  clear, 
though  still  cold,  one  could  take  a jaunt  with  some 
comfort.  The  sun  shone  from  a cloudless  sky, 
and  having  put  on  my  warm  rubber  boots,  I waded 
out  through  the  deep  snow  to  the  woods.  The  se- 
vere weather  had  not  discouraged  the  jolly  juncos 
and  tree-sparrows,  or  driven  them  to  a warmer 
climate.  They  delight  in  cold  weather ; it  seems  to 
make  them  all  the  merrier.  They  were  flitting  about 
in  the  bushes  and  trees,  chirping  gayly,  or,  like  my- 
self, were  wading  in  the  snow,  although  they  had  no 
woollen  stockings  for  their  little  feet,  much  less  warm 
rubber  boots.  What  hardy  creatures  they  are  ! For 
long  distances  I could  trace  their  dainty  tracks  in 
the  snow,  winding  in  and  out  among  the  bushes  and 


54 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


weeds,  and  making  many  a graceful  curve,  loop,  angle, 
and  labyrinth.  By  following  these  little  paths,  as  has 
been  said  before,  you  may  trace  the  thoughts  of  a 
bird, — that  is,  you  may  for  the  time  become  a bird 
mind-reader,  interpreting  every  impulse  that  seized 
the  throbbing  little  brain  and  breast. 

While  watching  these  birds  in  the  woods,  I ob- 
served a new  freak  of  bird  deportment.  The  juncos 
would  fly  up  into  the  dogwood-trees,  pick  off  a berry, 
nibble  it  greedily  a moment  with  their  little  white 
mandibles,  and  then  fling  it  to  the  ground.  My  eye 
was  especially  fixed  on  one  little  epicure.  Presently 
he  found  a berry  that  was  juicy  and  quite  to  his 
taste,  and  what  did  he  do  but  seize  it  in  his  beak 
and  dash  down  into  the  snow,  where  he  stood  leg- 
deep  in  the  icy  crystals  until  he  had  eaten  his  blood- 
red  tidbit ! He  was  in  no  hurry,  but  slowly  picked 
the  berry  to  pieces,  flinging  it  again  and  again  into 
the  snow,  devouring  the  soft  red  pulp  and  throw- 
ing the  rind  and  seed  away.  He  must  have  stood 
for  fully  five  minutes  in  the  same  tracks  ; at  all  events, 
it  seemed  a long  while  to  me,  standing  stock-still  in 
the  snow,  watching  him  eat  his  cold  luncheon,  while 
my  feet  were  becoming  chilled.  1 should  have  pitied 
his  little  feet  had  he  not  seemed  so  utterly  indifferent 
to  the  cold.  Afterward  I saw  a number  of  juncos, 
as  well  as  tree-sparrows,  taking  their  dinner  in  a simi- 
lar way,  — that  is,  on  the  snow,  which  seemed  to  serve 
them  for  a table-cloth.  Having  eaten  the  pulp  of 
the  berries,  they  left  the  pits  and  scarlet  rinds  lying 
on  top  of  the  snow.  Crumbs  they  were,  scattered 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


55 


about  by  these  precious  children  of  the  woods  ! In 
this  respect  the  snowbirds  and  tree-sparrows  differ 
from  the  crested  titmice,  which  reject  the  pulp  of 
the  dogwood  berries  entirely,  but  bore  out  the  ker- 
nel of  the  pit  and  eat  it  with  a relish.  And  as  to 
the  gluttonous  robins,  bluebirds,  woodpeckers,  and 
waxwings,  they  swallow  these  berries  whole.  Every 
citizen  of  Birdville  to  his  own  taste,  so  I say. 

In  the  corn-field  adjoining  the  woods  I witnessed 
another  little  scene  that  filled  me  with  delight.  At 
some  distance  I perceived  a snowbird  eating  seeds 
from  the  raceme  of  a tall  weed,  which  bent  over  in  a 
graceful  arc  beneath  its  dainty  burden.  Apparently 
he  was  enjoying  his  repast  all  to  himself.  I climbed 
the  fence,  and  cautiously  went  nearer  to  get  a better 
view  of  the  little  diner-out.  What  kind  of  discovery 
do  you  suppose  I made  ? I could  scarcely  believe 
my  eyes.  There,  beneath  the  weed,  hopping  about 
on  the  snow,  were  a tree-sparrow  and  a junco,  pick- 
ing up  the  seeds  that  their  little  companion  above 
was  shaking  down.  It  was  such  a pretty  little 
comedy  that  I laughed  aloud  for  pure  delight.  It 
seemed  for  all  the  world  like  a boy  in  an  apple-tree 
shaking  down  the  mellow  fruit  for  his  playmates, 
who  were  gathering  it  from  the  ground  as  it  fell.  It 
was  a pity  to  disturb  the  birds  at  their  festivities, 
and  I felt  like  a bully  for  doing  so  ; but  in  the  inter- 
est of  science,  you  see,  I had  to  drive  them  away  to 
see  what  kind  of  table  they  had  spread.  Beneath 
the  weed  the  snow  was  etched  with  dainty  bird- 
tracks,  and  thickly  strewn  with  black  seeds  from  the 
raceme  of  the  weed-stalk. 


5^ 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


Farther  on  in  the  woods,  another  cunning  little 
junco  proved  himself  no  lay  figure.  It  seemed,  in 
fact,  to  be  a junco  day.  When  I first  espied  him,  he 
was  standing  in  the  snow  beneath  a slender  weed- 
stem  eating  seeds  from  his  white  table-cloth.  But  the 
curious  feature  about  his  behavior  was  that,  whenever 
his  supply  of  seeds  on  the  snow  had  been  picked 
up,  he  would  dart  up  to  the  weed-stem  (which  was 
too  slender  to  afford  him  a comfortable  perch),  give 
it  a vigorous  shake,  which  would  bring  down  a 
quantity  of  seeds,  and  then  he  would  flit  below  and 
resume  his  meal.  This  he  did  several  times.  I 
should  not  have  believed  a junco  gifted  with  so  much 
sense  had  not  my  own  eyes  witnessed  this  cunning 
performance.  Had  some  other  observer  told  the 
story,  I should  have  laughed  at  it  a little  slyly  and 
more  than  half  unbelievingly ; but,  of  course,  one 
cannot  gainsay  the  evidence  of  one’s  own  eyesight. 

Nothing  in  all  my  winter  rambles  has  surprised 
me  more  than  the  evident  delight  some  species  of 
birds  take  in  the  snow.  It  is  a sort  of  luxury  to 
them,  wading-ground  and  feasting-ground  all  in  one. 
How  they  keep  their  little  bare  feet  from  becoming 
chilblained  is  a mystery.  The  evening  of  the  twen- 
tieth of  January  was  bitterly  cold,  the  wind  blowing 
in  fierce,  howling  gusts  from  the  northwest.  Yet 
when,  at  about  five  o’clock,  I stalked  out  to  the 
pond  in  the  rear  of  my  house,  the  tree- sparrows  and 
song-sparrows  were  fairly  revelling,  not  to  say  wal- 
lowing, in  the  snow  among  the  weeds.  The  wind 
was  so  biting  that  I soon  hurried  back  to  the  house, 
and  left  them  to  their  midwinter  carousal. 


WINTER  FROLICS. 


57 


Quite  a respectable  colony  of  flickers  found  a 
home  during  the  winter  in  my  favorite  woodland. 
Unlike  the  other  birds  mentioned,  chey  do  not  wade 
about  in  the  snow.  No ; to  their  minds,  a bare 
tree-wall  is  the  desideratum  for  a tramping-ground ; 
and  if  they  need  more  exercise  than  promenading 
affords  them,  they  can  take  to  wing  and  go  bounding 
from  one  part  of  the  woods  to  another.  A flicker  is 
a staid  bird  when  he  does  n’t  happen  to  be  in  a play- 
ful mood.  You  would  have  laughed  at  one  in  De- 
cember which  was  clinging  to  a branch  high  up  in  a 
tree  with  his  head  right  in  front  of  a woodpecker 
hole,  over  which  he  seemed  to  be  standing  guard. 
There  he  clung,  as  if  that  hollow  contained  the  most 
precious  treasure,  and  would  not  desert  his  post, 
although  I leaped  about  on  the  ground,  shouted 
loudly,  and  even  flung  my  cap  in  the  air  like  a wild 
man,  to  frighten  him  away.  How  comical  he  looked 
in  his  role  of  sentinel ! He  never  smiled  or  even 
winked,  but  left  such  trifling  to  the  human  scatter- 
brain below,  who  was  so  ill-mannered  as  to  laugh 
at  a well-behaved  woodpecker.  Perhaps  he  had  a 
winter  store  of  food  stowed  away  in  that  cavity,  and 
thought  he  had  to  guard  it  well,  now  that  a real 
brigand  had  come  prowling  about  the  premises. 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


58 


IV. 

FEBRUARY  OUTINGS. 

IF  I were  not  afraid  of  the  ridicule  of  the  cynic, 
I should  begin  this  February  chronicle  with  an 
exclamation  of  delight ; but  in  these  days,  when  so 
many  of  the  so-called  cultured  class  have  taken  for 
their  motto,  Nil  admirari , one  must  try  to  repress 
one’s  enthusiasm,  or  be  scoffed  at,  or  at  least  pat- 
ronized, as  young  and  inexperienced.  Yet  it  would 
be  out  of  the  question  for  the  genuine  rambler  to 
keep  the  valve  constantly  upon  his  buoyant  feelings. 
If  he  did  so,  he  would  be  wholly  out  of  tune  with 
the  jubilant  mood  of  bird  and  bloom  and  wave 
around  him. 

Almost  every  day  of  February,  1891,  was  a gala- 
day  for  me,  on  account  of  the  large  number  of  birds 
in  song  at  that  time.  The  weather  was  not  always 
pleasant,  but  the  month  came  in  blandly,  bringing 
on  its  gentle  winds  many  birds  from  their  southern 
winter-quarters ; and  as  they  had  come,  they  made 
up  their  minds  to  stay.  My  notes  begin  with  the 
eleventh  of  the  month,  and  my  narrative  will  begin 
with  that  date.  In  the  evening  I strolled  out  to  my 
favorite  swamp.  On  my  arrival  all  was  quiet ; but 
soon  the  song-sparrows,  seeing  that  a human  auditor 


FEBRUARY  OUTINGS. 


59 


had  come,  broke  into  a jingling  chorus.  Early  in 
the  season  as  it  was,  they  seemed  to  be  almost  in 
perfect  voice,  only  a little  of  the  hesitancy  and 
twitter  of  their  fall  songs  being  distinguishable ; 
nor  did  they  seem  to  care  for  the  raw  evening 
wind  blowing  across  the  meadows,  or  the  gray 
clouds  scurrying  athwart  the  sky,  but  kept  up  their 
canticles  until  the  dusk  fell. 

Two  days  later,  while  sauntering  through  a wood- 
land, I had  the  greatest  surprise  of  the  winter.  For 
several  years  I had  been  studying  the  tree- sparrows, 
hoping  to  hear  them  sing,  but  only  two  or  three 
times  had  my  anxious  quest  been  rewarded  with 
even  a wisp  of  melody  from  their  lyrical  throats. 
On  this  day,  however,  I came  upon  a whole  colony 
of  them  in  full  tune,  giving  a concert  that  would 
have  thrilled  the  most  prosaic  soul  with  poetry  and 
romance.  It  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  really 
seen  these  birds  while  singing ; but  now,  so  kind 
was  fortune,  I could  watch  the  movement  of  their 
mandibles,  the  swelling  of  their  throats,  and  the 
heaving  of  their  bosoms  while  they  trilled  their 
roundelays.  My  notes,  taken  on  the  spot,  run  as 
follows  : “ The  song  is  somewhat  crude  and  labored 
in  technique ; but  the  tones  are  very  sweet  indeed, 
not  soft  and  low,  as  one  author  says,  but  quite  loud 
and  clear,  so  that  they  might  be  heard  at  some  dis- 
tance. The  minstrelsy  is  more  like  that  of  the  fox- 
sparrow  than  of  any  other  sparrow,  though  the  tones 
are  finer  and  not  so  full  and  resonant.  Quite  often 
the  song  opens  with  one  or  two  long  syllables,  and 


6o 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


ends  with  a merry  little  trill  having  a delightfully 
human  intonation.  There  is,  indeed,  something 
innocent  and  even  childlike  about  the  voices  of 
these  sparrows.  Had  they  the  song-sparrow’s  skill 
in  execution,  they  would  rival  that  triller’s  vocal 
performances.  How  many  of  them  are  taking 
part  in  the  concert ! They  seem  to  be  holding  a 
song  carnival  to-day,  and  there  is  real  witchery  in 
their  music.  Frequently  their  songs  are  superim- 
posed, as  it  were,  upon  the  semi-musical  chattering 
in  which  these  birds  so  often  indulge.” 

But,  strange  to  say,  although  the  conditions  were 
apparently  in  every  respect  favorable,  I did  not  hear 
the  song  of  a single  tree-sparrow  after  that  epochal 
day  for  more  than  a year.  Evidently  these  birds 
are  erratic  songsters,  at  least  in  this  latitude.  On 
the  same  day  the  meadow-larks  flung  their  flute-like 
songs  athwart  the  fields,  and  the  bold  bugle  of  the 
Carolina  wren  echoed  through  the  woods. 

February  14.  “ In  the  swamp  the  song-sparrows 
are  holding  an  opera  festival,”  my  notes  run.  “ One 
of  them  trills  softly  in  a clump  of  wild- rose  bushes, 
as  if  asking  permission  to  sing  ; and  then,  his  request 
being  gladly  granted,  he  leaps  up  boldly  to  a twig 
of  a sapling,  and  breaks  into  a torrent  of  melody. 
Another,  in  precisely  the  same  tune,  answers  him 
farther  down  the  stream,  the  two  executing  a sort 
of  fugue.  A third  leaps  about  on  the  dry  grass 
that  fringes  a ditch,  twitters  merrily  for  a while, 
then  flies  to  a small  oak-tree  near  by,  and — well, 
such  a loud,  rollicking,  tempestuous  song  I have 


FEBR  UARY  0 UTINGS.  6 1 

never  before  heard  from  a song-sparrow’s  throat. 
Some  of  his  tones  are  full  and  exultant,  while  others 
in  the  same  run  are  low  and  tender,  like  the  strains 
of  a love-lorn  harp.  The  tones  produced  by  exha- 
lation can  be  distinguished  from  those  produced 
by  inhalation.  Sometimes  his  voice  sounds  a little 
hoarse,  as  if  he  had  strained  one  of  the  strings  of 
his  lyre,  but  I find,  on  focusing  my  ear  upon  them, 
that  these  are  some  of  his  most  melodious  notes. 
Presently,  in  a fit  of  ecstasy,  he  hurls  forth  such  a 
torrent  of  song,  in  allegro  furioso , that  one  almost 
fancies  the  naiads  and  water-witches  of  the  marsh 
are  crying  out  for  admiration. 

“ Here  is  something  worthy  of  note  — when  the 
song-sparrow  begins  a trill,  he  usually  sings  it  over  a 
number  of  times,  and  then,  as  if  wearied  with  one 
tune,  turns  to  another ; and  yet  with  all  his  varia- 
tions — and  I know  not  how  many  he  is  capable  of 
singing — there  is  always  something  distinctive  about 
his  minstrelsy  that  differentiates  it  from  that  of  all 
other  birds.” 

February  17.  “ Again  in  the  swamp.  It  seems 

to  me  I have  never  before  heard  the  song-sparrows 
sing  so  gleefully.  Every  concert  goes  ahead  of  its 
predecessor.  Here  is  a sparrow  hopping  about  on 
the  green  grass  among  the  bushes  like  a brown 
mouse ; now  he  chirps  sharply  as  if  to  attract  my 
attention,  and  then  bursts  into  a melody  that  almost 
makes  me  turn  a somersault  for  very  joy ; and  now, 
having  sung  his  intermittent  trills  for  a few  minutes, 
he  begins  to  warble  a sweet,  continuous  lay,  with  an 
andante  movement,  as  if  he  could  not  stop. 


62 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


iC  A little  farther  on,  another  songster,  with  a 
voice  of  excellent  timbre , is  descanting  on  a small 
oak  sapling.  Note,  he  runs  over  several  trills,  rising 
higher  at  every  effort,  until  at  last  he  strikes  a note 
far  up  in  the  scale,  holds  it  firmly  a moment,  and 
then  drops  to  a lower  note.  Then  he  repeats  the 
process,  the  summit  of  his  ambition  being  attained 
whenever  he  reaches  that  high  note,  which  is 
bewitchingly  sweet.  How  clear  and  true  his  voice 
rings  ! 

“ Sometimes  a silence  falls  upon  the  marsh ; not 
a note  is  to  be  heard  for  a minute  or  two;  and 
then,  as  if  by  a preconcerted  signal,  a dozen  spar- 
rows throw  the  air  into  musical  tumult,  their  com- 
bined rush  of  notes  seeming  almost  like  a salvo. 
Often,  too,  when  I approach  the  marsh,  no  music  is 
heard,  but  no  sooner  have  I climbed  the  fence  into 
the  enclosure  than  the  choral  begins;  so  that  I 
believe  I am  justified  in  saying  that  the  song-spar- 
row appreciates  a human  auditor.  This  is  not  said 
by  way  of  disparagement,  — by  no  means ; for 
almost  all  musicians,  whether  human  or  avian,  sing 
to  be  heard.” 

On  the  same  day  I saw  a song- sparrow  whose 
central  tail-feather  was  pure  white  from  quill  to  tip, 
and  the  bird  remained  in  the  marsh  until  the  twenty- 
fourth  of  the  month,  his  odd  adornment  visible  from 
afar.  I wras  also  surprised  to  find  two  male  che- 
winks  in  the  bushes.  A cardinal  grossbeak  was  also 
seen,  and  a robin’s  song  and  the  loud  call  of  a 
flicker  were  heard. 


FEBRUARY  OUTINGS. 


63 


My  next  outing  occurred  on  the  nineteenth, 
when  the  weather  had  turned  colder,  and  snow  was 
falling,  mingled  with  sleet;  yet  several  song- 
sparrows  trilled  softly  in  the  marsh.  On  the  twenty- 
third  crow  blackbirds  were  seen,  and  on  the  twenty- 
fourth  a turtle-dove  was  cooing  meditatively,  and 
the  song-sparrows  were  holding  another  opera  festi- 
val. The  last  days  of  February  became  cold  again, 
and  March  brought  several  severe  storms  ; but  I think 
none  of  the  hardy,  adventurous  birds  named,  retreated 
to  a warmer  clime,  even  if  they  did  regret  having  left 
their  winter  quarters  a little  prematurely. 


64 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


V. 

ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

HAVE  any  of  my  readers  kept  a record  of  the 
arrival  of  the  birds  during  the  spring  ? The 
northward  procession  of  the  battalions  in  feathers  is 
an  interesting  study.  Why  do  some  birds  begin 
their  pilgrimage  from  the  south  so  much  earlier  than 
others?  What  is  there  in  their  physical  and  mental 
make-up  that  gives  them  the  northward  impulse  even 
before  fair  weather  has  come?  Do  they  become 
homesick  for  their  summer  haunts  sooner  than  their 
fellows?  These  are  questions  that  are  much  more 
easily  asked  than  answered.  The  size  of  the  bird 
furnishes  no  clew  to  the  solution,  for  some  small 
birds  are  better  able  to  resist  the  cold  than  many 
larger  ones.  There  is  the  little  black-capped  tit- 
mouse — a mere  mite  of  a bird  — which  generally 
remains  in  my  neighborhood  all  winter,  cheerfully 
braving  the  stormiest  weather;  while  the  brown 
thrasher,  fully  five  times  as  large,  is  carefully  warm- 
ing his  shins  in  the  sunny  south,  and  will  not  ven- 
ture north  until  the  spring  has  come  to  stay.  Here, 
too,  is  Bewick’s  wren  on  the  first  day  of  April,  — 
with  no  thought  of  making  an  April  fool  of  any 
one,  — while  the  Baltimore  orioles,  rose-breasted 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS. 


65 


grossbeaks,  and  scarlet  tanagers,  all  larger  than  he, 
are  tarrying  in  Georgia  and  Alabama.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  size  or  color  or  form  of  the  birds  that 
makes  this  difference ; it  is  doubtless  in  the  blood. 

I have  kept  a careful  memorandum  of  the  arrival 
of  these  feathered  voyagers  (this  was  during  the 
spring  of  1892),  and  know  almost  to  a certainty 
the  day,  and  sometimes  the  hour,  when  they  cast 
anchor  in  this  port.  The  winter  had  been  unusually 
severe,  and  yet  the  migration  began  as  early  as  the 
twenty-second  of  February,  when  the  first  meadow- 
larks put  in  appearance,  and  sent  their  wavering 
shafts  of  song  across  the  frost-bound  fields.  They 
had  left  only  on  the  last  day  of  December,  but  had 
apparently  remained  away  as  long  as  they  could. 
On  the  same  day  the  killdeer  plovers  also  arrived, 
making  their  presence  known  by  their  wailing  cry. 
On  the  twenty-third  I heard  the  Q-q-o-o-ka-l-e-e-e  of 
the  red-winged  blackbirds,  and  on  the  morning  of 
the  twenty-fourth  the  first  robins  dropped  from  the 
sky  after  a “ flying  trip”  in  the  night  from  some 
more  southern  stopping-place ; but  the  weather 
was  too  cold  for  them  to  sing.  Yet  the  song-spar- 
rows and  meadow-larks  defied  the  cold  with  their 
cheerful  melody.  While  the  robin  is  a very  gay 
and  lavish  songster,  he  wants  favorable  weather  for 
his  vocal  rehearsals,  and  a “ cold  snap  ” will  easily 
discourage  him.  He  is  evidently  somewhat  of  a fair- 
weather  minstrel.  It  was  on  February  twenty- 
eighth,  a pleasant  day.  that  I caught  the  first  strain 
of  robin  melody. 


5 


66 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


The  towhee  buntings  dropped  anchor  on  the 
seventh  of  March,  filling  the  woods  with  their  fine, 
explosive  trills.  It  was  a pleasant  day,  a sort  of 
oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  stormy  weather,  and  it  did 
not  seem  inapt  to  speculate  a little  as  to  the  thoughts 
of  these  birds  on  their  arrival  at  their  old  summer 
haunts,  after  an  absence  of  four  or  five  months. 
Was  the  old  brush-heap,  where  they  had  built  their 
nest  the  previous  spring,  still  there  ? Had  the 
winter  storms  spared  the  twig  on  the  sapling  where 
Cock  Bunting  had  sung  erstwhile  his  sweetest  trills 
to  his  dusky  mate  ? “ What  if  the  woodman  has 

cleared  away  our  pleasant  corner  of  the  woods?” 
whispers  Mrs.  Towhee  to  her  lord  as  they  approach 
the  sequestered  spot.  How  their  hearts  must  bound 
with  joy  when  they  find  sapling  and  brush-heap  and 
winding  woodway  all  as  they  had  left  them  in  the 
autumn  ! No  wonder  they  are  so  tuneful ! Even 
the  snow-storms  that  moan  and  howl  through  the 
woods  a few  days  later  cannot  wholly  repress  their 
exuberant  feelings. 

On  the  same  date  a whole  colony  of  young  song- 
sparrows  stopped  at  this  station  on  their  journey 
northward,  although  you  must  remember  that  quite 
a number  of  their  elders  remained  here  through  the 
winter.  What  a twittering  these  year-old  sparrows 
made  in  the  bushes  fringing  the  woods  ! I actually 
laughed  aloud  at  their  crude,  tuneless,  quasi-musical 
efforts.  They  were  not  in  good  voice,  and,  besides, 
had  not  yet  fully  learned  the  tunes  that  are  sung  in 
sparrowdom,  and  could  not  control  their  vocal 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS . 


6 7 


chords.  They  made  many  sorry  and  amusing  at- 
tempts to  chant  and  trill,  but  their  voices  would 
break  and  catch  in  the  most  remarkable  ways,  now 
sliding  up  too  high  in  the  scale,  now  sliding  down 
too  low,  and  now  veering  too  much  to  one  side,  so 
to  speak.  One  tyro,  I observed,  sang  the  first  part 
of  a run  very  well,  almost  as  well,  in  fact,  as  an  adult 
musician  could  have  sung  it ; but  when  he  tried  to 
finish,  his  voice  seemed  to  fly  all  to  flinders.  He 
made  the  attempt  again  and  again,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose. It  was  a day  for  which  I have  cut  a notch 
in  the  tally-stick  of  memory.  Leaving  the  company 
of  young  vocalists  at  their  rehearsals  at  the  border 
of  the  woods,  I made  my  way  to  a swamp  not  far 
off,  where  a pleasant  surprise  lay  in  ambush.  Here 
were  no  longer  found  young  song-sparrows,  but 
adults,  and  you  should  have  heard  them  sing.  What 
a contrast  between  the  crude  songs  of  the  young 
birds  and  the  loud,  clear,  splendidly  intoned  and 
executed  trills  of  these  trained  musicians  ! 

But  I must  return  to  the  subject  of  migration. 
The  fifteenth  of  March  was  a raw,  blustering  day, 
as  its  predecessors  had  been  ; but  in  the  woods  sev- 
eral fox-sparrows  were  singing,  not  their  best,  of 
course,  but  fairly  well  for  such  weather.  They  must 
have  come  during  the  night.  But  why  had  they 
come  when  the  weather  was  so  cold?  Most  birds 
wait  until  there  is  a bland  air-c.urrent  from  the  south 
on  which  they  can  ride  triumphantly.  Had  this 
small  band  of  fox- sparrows  followed  the  example 
of  a well-known  American  humorist,  and  gone  to 


68 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“ roughing  it  ”?  Strange  to  say,  I saw  no  more  fox- 
sparrows  until  the  twenty-eighth,  when  the  weather 
had  grown  warm.  That  was  also  the  day  on  which 
I saw  the  first  winter  wren  scudding  about  in  the 
brush-heaps  and  wood-piles  and  perking  up  his  tail 
in  the  most  approved  bantam  fashion.  It  may  be 
a poor  joke,  but  the  thought  came  of  its  own  accord, 
that  if  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit,  this  little  wren 
must  have  a very  witty  tail ; and  it  really  is  an 
amusing  appendage,  held  up  at  an  acute  angle  with 
the  bird’s  sloping  back. 

As  I strolled  along  the  edge  of  the  woods  on  the 
same  day,  the  fine  rhythmic  trill  of  the  bush-spar- 
row reached  my  ear.  He  was  celebrating  his  return 
to  this  sylvan  resort,  and  his  voice  was  in  excellent 
trim  ; the  fact  is,  I never  heard  him  acquit  himself 
quite  so  well,  not  even  in  May.  Miss  Lucy  Larcom, 
of  tender  and  sacred  memory,  has  happily  charac- 
terized this  triller’s  song  in  melodious  verse : — 

“One  syllable,  clear  and  soft 
As  a raindrop’s  silvery  patter, 

Or  a tinkling  fairy-bell,  heard  aloft, 

In  the  midst  of  the  merry  chatter 
Of  robin  and  linnet  and  w ren  and  jay, — 

One  syllable  oft  repeated  ; 

He  has  but  a word  to  say, 

And  of  that  he  will  not  be  cheated.” 

But  why  was  not  the  grass-finch,  his  relative  of 
the  fields,  in  just  as  good  voice  when  he  arrived  on 
the  thirty-first?  The  last  two  springs  this  bird  had 
to  be  on  his  singing-grounds  several  days  before  he 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS. 


69 


recovered  his  full  powers  of  voice.  On  the  twenty- 
ninth  the  phoebe  came  with  his  burden  of  sweet  song, 
and  the  first  of  April  brought  Bewick’s  wren  — sweet- 
voiced Arion  of  the  suburbs  — and  the  chipping 
sparrow,  whose  slender  peal  of  song  rang  through 
my  study  window.  Here  my  record  stops  for  the 
present  year;  but  by  reference  to  my  last  year’s 
notes  (1891)  it  appears  that  Bewick’s  wren  did  not 
then  arrive  until  April  tenth,  and  chippy  not  until 
April  twelfth.  The  difference  in  the  seasons  is 
doubtless  the  primary  cause  of  this  divergence  in 
the  time  of  arrival.  April  brings  many  other  winged 
pilgrims,  — the  white-throated  and  white-crowned 
sparrows,  the  thrushes,  the  orioles,  the  tanagers, 
the  cat-birds,  the  swallows  and  swifts,  and  some  of 
the  hardier  warblers,  while  the  great  army  of  war- 
blers delay  their  coming  till  the  first  and  second 
weeks  in  May.  And  all  the  while  we  are  having  bird 
concerts,  cantatas,  oratorios,  and  opera  festivals, 
mingled  with  some  tragedy  and  a great  deal  of 
comedy,  and  there  are  love  songs  and  cradle  songs, 
matins  and  vespers,  and  twitterings  expressive  of 
every  shade  and  variety  of  feeling. 

I yield  to  the  temptation  to  add  a brief  article 
entitled  “ Watching  the  Parade,”  which  was  pub- 
lished in  a New  England  journal  in  the  summer  of 
1893,  and  contains  a record  of  some  observations 
made  during  the  previous  spring.  By  comparison 
with  the  preceding  part  of  this  chapter,  it  will  indi- 
cate the  versatile  character  of  bird  study  in  the 


7o 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


same  season  of  different  years.  I shall  give  it 
almost  verbatim  as  first  published,  hoping  the 
rather  “ free  and  easy”  style  will  be  generously 
overlooked  by  critical  readers. 

Every  spring  and  autumn  for  many  years  I have 
been  watching  the  parade  ; not  a parade  of  soldiers, 
or  of  civic  orders,  or  even  of  a menagerie  ; but  one 
of  far  more  interest  to  the  naturalist,  — the  pro- 
cession of  the  army  in  feathers.  A wonderful  cor- 
tege it  is,  this  army  in  bright  array ; and  every  time 
you  witness  it,  you  add  something  new  to  your 
knowledge  of  bird  life.  The  last  spring  has  been  no 
exception,  although,  when  the  pageant  began,  I 
wondered  if  I should  see  any  new  birds  or  hear  any 
new  songs,  and  even  felt  a little  doubtful  about  it. 

But  quite  early  a new  bird  was  added  to  my  list. 
It  was  the  blue-winged  warbler,  which  carries  about 
a scientific  name  big  enough  to  break  its  dainty 
back.  Just  think  of  calling  a tiny  bird  Helminiho - 
phila  pinus  ! But  happily  it  does  not  know  its  own 
name,  and,  like  some  of  my  readers,  would  not  be 
able  to  pronounce  it  if  it  did,  and  therefore  no 
serious  harm  is  done.  This  bird  may  be  known  by 
the  bright  olive-green  of  its  back,  the  pale  blue  of 
its  wings,  the  pure  yellow  of  its  under  parts,  and  the 
narrow  black  line  running  back  through  its  eye.  It 
seemed  to  be  quite  wary,  yet  I got  near  enough  to 
see  it  catch  insects  on  the  wing  like  a wood-pewee, 
as  well  as  pick  them  from  the  leaves  of  the  trees. 

The  bird  student  must  sometimes  let  problems  go 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS . 71 

unsolved.  For  nearly,  perhaps  quite  a week,  three 
or  four  large,  heavy-beaked  birds  flitted  about  in 
several  tall  tree-tops  of  the  woods,  but  were  so  far 
up  that,  try  as  I would,  I could  not  identify  them 
even  with  my  opera-glass.  In  my  small  collection 
of  mounted  birds  there  is  a female  evening  gross- 
beak  ; and  the  tree-top  flitters  looked  more  like  it 
than  any  other  bird  of  my  acquaintance.  If  they 
were  evening  grossbeaks,  it  was  a rare  And;  for 
these  birds  are  almost  unknown  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  only  a few  having  ever  been  discovered  in 
this  State.  Their  usual  locale  is  thought  to  be  west 
of  Lake  Superior.  I was  sorely  tempted  to  use  a 
gun,  but  decided  that  it  was  just  as  well  not  to  know 
some  things  as  to  massacre  an  innocent  bird. 

.However,  other  finds  were  more  satisfactory. 
Strolling  through  the  woods  one  day,  I caught  the 
notes  of  a bird  song  that  did  not  sound  familiar. 
Surely  it  was  a vireo’ s quaint,  continuous  lay ; but 
which  of  the  vireos  could  it  be?  It  was  different 
from  any  vireo  minstrelsy  I had  ever  heard.  Peer- 
ing about  in  the  bushes  for  the  author  of  those 
elusive  notes,  I at  length  espied  a little  bird  form, 
and  the  next  moment  my  glass  revealed  the  blue- 
headed or  solitary  vireo.  It  was  the  first  time  I had 
ever  heard  this  little  vocalist  sing  in  the  spring, 
although  we  have  met — he  and  I — on  familiar 
terms  every  season  for  many  years.  Here  is  a 
query  : Why  was  blue-head  silent  other  years,  and 
so  tuneful  that  spring?  For  he  was  often  heard 
after  that  day. 


72 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


The  song  was  varied  and  lively,  sometimes  run- 
ning high  in  the  scale,  and  had  not  that  absent- 
minded  air  which  marks  the  roundelay  of  the 
warbling  vireo.  It  is  much  more  intense  and 
expressive,  and  some  notes  are  quite  like  certain 
runs  of  the  brown  thrasher’s  song.  The  bird  did 
two  other  things  that  were  a surprise  : he  chattered 
and  scolded  much  like  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet. 
Then  he  caught  a miller,  and,  as  it  was  too  large  to 
be  swallowed  whole,  placed  it  under  his  claws  pre- 
cisely like  a chickadee  or  blue  jay,  and  pulled  it  to 
pieces.  This  was  a new  trick  to  me,  nor  have  I 
ever  read,  in  any  of  the  bird  manuals,  of  his  taking 
his  dinner  in  this  way. 

The  red-eyed  vireo  also  chanted  a little  roundel 
that  spring,  as  he  pursued  his  journey  northward,  his 
song  being  slower  in  movement  and  less  expressive 
and  varied  than  that  of  his  cousin  just  referred  to. 

Indeed,  the  procession  seemed  to  be  especially 
musical  during  that  spring.  One  day,  in  the  last 
week  in  April,  a new  style  of  music  rang  out  at  the 
border  of  the  woods,  and  I fairly  trembled  lest  the 
jolly  soloist  should  scud  away  before  I could  iden- 
tify him ; but  he  had  no  intention  of  making  his 
escape,  and  giving  the  credit  of  his  vocal  efforts  to 
somebody  else  in  the  bird  world.  At  length  I got 
my  glass  upon  him.  He  proved  to  be  the  purple 
finch,  — rosy  little  Mozart  that  he  was  ! For  years 
he  has  passed  through  these  woods  with  the  vernal 
procession,  but  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
been  obliging  enough  to  sing  in  my  hearing.  And 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS. 


73 


what  a rolling,  rollicking  little  song  it  was,  just  as 
full  of  good  cheer  as  bird  song  could  be  ! He 
continued  his  vocal  rehearsal  for  many  minutes  on 
that  day,  but  afterward  he  and  his  fellows  were  as 
mute  as  the  inmates  of  a deaf  and  dumb  asylum.  A 
purple  finch  once  sang  here  in  the  fall ; but  the 
music  was  quite  harsh  and  squeaking,  very  different 
from  his  springtime  melody. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  birds  that  have  a part 
in  the  vernal  parade  is  the  rose-breasted  grossbeak, 
— a bird  that  you  will  recognize  at  once  by  his 
white-and-black  coat  and  the  rosy  shield  he  so 
bravely  bears  on  his  bosom.  In  his  summer  home, 
farther  north,  I have  often  heard  his  vivacious 
music  (this  was  in  northern  Indiana)  ; but  until 
the  past  spring  he  has  always  been  silent  as  he 
passed  through  this  neighborhood,  save  that  he 
would  sometimes  utter  his  sharp,  metallic  Chip . 
However,  on  the  fourteenth  of  May  two  of  these 
grossbeaks  sang  a most  vigorous  duet  in  the  grove 
near  my  house ; and  I wish  you  could  have  heard  it, 
for  it  would  have  made  you  almost  leap  for  joy,  it 
was  so  jolly  and  rollicksome.  At  first  you  may  be 
disposed  to  think  the  grossbeak’s  song  much  like 
the  robin’s,  but  you  will  soon  find  that  it  is  finer  in 
several  respects,  the  tones  being  clearer  and  fuller, 
the  utterance  more  rapid  and  varied,  and  the  whole 
song  much  more  spirited  ; and  that  is  saying  a 
good  deal,  considering  Cock  Robin’s  cheery  carols. 
No  one  should  fail  to  hear  this  rosy-breasted  min- 
strel, whatever  else  he  may  miss.  It  v/ill  make  him 


74 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


feel  that  life  is  worth  living ; that  if  God  made  this 
bird  so  happy,  he  must  intend  that  his  rational 
creatures,  who  are  of  more  value  than  a bird,  should 
also  be  cheerful. 

Never  were  the  birds  so  gentle  and  confiding  as 
they  were  during  that  spring.  A female  redstart 
took  up  her  residence  in  my  yard  for  fully  a week, 
flitting  about  in  the  trees  and  grape-arbor,  seeking 
for  nits  and  worms ; and  you  are  to  remember  that 
I live  in  town  (though  in  the  outskirts),  with  many 
houses  and  people  about,  and  an  electric  car  whirl- 
ing along  the  street  every  few  minutes.  A dainty 
bay-breasted  warbler  — little  witch  ! — kept  the  red- 
start company,  letting  me  stand  beneath  the  trees 
on  whose  lower  branches  she  tilted,  and  watch  her 
agile  movements  ; yet  one  of  my  bird  books  declares 
that  the  bay-breasted  warblers  remain  in  the  highest 
tree-tops  of  the  woods  ! Both  these  birds  occasion- 
ally uttered  a trill. 

The  goldfinches,  too,  were  very  familiar.  They 
came  with  the  procession  as  far  north  as  my  neigh- 
borhood, but  stopped  here  for  the  summer,  instead 
of  continuing  their  pilgrimage.  Some  of  their 
brothers  and  sisters  remained  with  me  all  winter. 
Within  a few  feet  of  my  rear  door  stands  a small 
apple-tree,  in  whose  branches  these  feathered  gold- 
flakes  flashed  about,  and  sang  their  childlike  ditties, 
and  one  little  madam  fluttered  in  the  leafy  crotches 
of  the  twigs,  fitting  her  body  into  them  as  if  trying 
to  see  if  they  would  make  good  nesting-sites ; the 
while  Sir  Goldfinch  sang  and  sang  at  the  top  of  his 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS . 


75 


voice.  Several  white-crowned,  sparrows  also  came 
to  eat  seeds  thrown  out  into  the  back  yard.  These 
handsome  sparrows  were  not  shy,  but  perched  on 
the  fence  or  the  trees,  and  trilled  their  sweet 
refrains. 


76 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


VI. 

WINGED  VOYAGERS. 

THE  subject  of  bird  migration  is  one  of  absorb- 
ing interest,  presenting  many  a perplexing 
problem  to  the  student  who  cares  to  go  into  the 
philosophy  of  things.  Why  do  the  birds  make  these 
wonderful  semi-annual  pilgrimages,  and  whence  came 
the  original  impulse,  are  questions  often  asked.  With 
my  limited  opportunities  for  observation  I cannot 
hope  to  shed  much,  if  any,  new  light  on  the  sub- 
ject ; yet  it  seems  to  me  that  some  persons  are  dis- 
posed to  invest  it  with  more  of  an  air  of  mystery  than 
is  really  necessary.  There  are  several  patent,  if  not 
wholly  satisfactory,  reasons  that  may  be  assigned 
for  the  migrating  impulse. 

As  this  is  not  a scientific  treatise,  the  writer  will 
not  be  over- methodical  in  presenting  these  reasons, 
but  will  mention  them  in  the  order  in  which  they 
occur  to  him.  If  we  keep  in  mind  the  invariable 
succession  of  the  seasons,  and  that  this  annual  rota- 
tion has  continued  for  ages,  and  if  we  also  remem- 
ber that  all  animals  are  dowered  by  their  Creator 
with  as  much  intelligence  as  is  necessary  for  their 
well-being,  much  of  the  difficulty  attaching  to  this 
subject  will  at  once  disappear.  Birds,  like  their 


WINGED  VOYAGERS . 


77 


human  kinsmen,  learn  by  experience  and  tutelage, 
and  are  also  gifted  with  a sure  instinct  that  amounts 
in  many  cases  almost  to  reason.  Take,  for  instance, 
this  one  fact.  As  the  sun  creeps  northward  in  the 
spring,  it  pours  a more  and  more  intense  heat  upon 
the  northern  portions  of  the  tropical  and  sub-tropical 
regions.  The  heat  would  soon  become  intolerable 
to  certain  birds,  which  have  doubtless  tried  the 
experiment  of  spending  the  summer  in  equatorial 
countries ; or  if  individuals  now  living  have  not 
tried  it,  perhaps  some  of  their  more  or  less  remote 
ancestors  have.  That  birds  do  make  experiments 
is  proved  by  the  fact  that  several  pets  of  mine 
will  carefully  “ sample  ” a new  kind  of  food  offered 
them,  and  if  they  do  not  find  it  to  their  taste, 
will  let  it  severely  alone;  nor  is  it  any  the  less 
evident  that  young  birds  receive  instruction  from 
their  elders.  Thus  the  necessity  of  leaving  the 
torrid  regions  as  summer  approaches  may  have 
been  impressed  on  the  migrating  species  from  time 
immemorial. 

Again,  as  spring  advances,  insect  and  vegetable 
life  is  revived  in  regions  farther  north,  and  this 
certainly  must  act  as  a magnet  upon  the  birds, 
drawing  them  from  point  to  point  as  the  supply  of 
food  becomes  scarce  in  the  more  southern  localities. 
Then,  let  us  suppose  for  a moment  that  all  the  birds 
did  remain  in  the  south  through  the  summer ; there 
would  sooner  or  later  be  a bird  famine  in  the  land, 
for  the  supply  of  seeds  and  insects  would  soon  be 
exhausted.  Our  feathered  folk  are  simply  obliged, 


?8 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


on  account  of  the  exigencies  of  food,  to  scatter 
themselves  over  a larger  extent  of  country.  They 
solve  the  problem  of  food  supply  and  demand  by 
these  annual  pilgrimages  to  the  boreal  lands  of 
plenty. 

To  go  a little  more  to  the  root  of  the  matter,  we 
may  easily  imagine  how  the  migrating  spirit  got  its 
first  impulse  and  gradually  became  evolved  into  a 
habit  of  something  like  scientific  precision.  If  the 
first  birds  lived  in  tropical  climates,  as  was  probably 
the  case,  some  of  them,  as  the  food  supply  became 
exhausted,  would  be  crowded  northward,  or  would 
go  of  their  own  accord,  and  wherever  they  went 
they  would  find  well-filled  natural  larders.  Having 
once  discovered  that  spring  replenished  the  north 
with  food,  they  would  soon  learn  the  desirability  of 
making  periodical  journeys  to  that  part  of  the  globe. 
With  this  constant  quest  for  food  must  also  be 
coupled  the  instinctive  desire  of  most  birds  for 
seclusion  during  the  season  of  reproduction,  — an 
instinct  that  would  naturally  drive  them  northward 
into  the  less  thickly  tenanted  districts.  But  it  may  be 
objected  that  many  species  make  long  aerial  voyages, 
passing  over  vast  tracts  of  country  to  reach  their 
chosen  summer  habitats  in  various  parts  of  the 
north ; and  it  is  well  known  that  the  same  individ- 
uals will  return  again  and  again,  on  the  recurrence 
of  spring,  to  the  same  locality.  How  are  these  facts 
to  be  accounted  for? 

If  we  accept  the  glacial  theory  — a hypothesis 
pretty  well  established  now  among  scientific  men  - 


WINGED  VOYAGERS . 


79 


we  may  readily  conceive  that,  as  the  sun  melted  the 
ice  at  a greater  distance  in  both  directions  from  the 
equator,  the  habitable  area  of  the  earth’s  surface 
would  gradually  become  enlarged.  For  the  sake  of 
vividness  let  us  fancy  ourselves  living  at  that  period 
of  the  world’s  history.  Let  us  select  a point  north 
of  the  equator  where  a given  pair  of  birds  can  live 
in  summer.  They  find  plenty  of  food  there,  and 
are  comparatively  undisturbed  by  other  birds,  and 
they  therefore  become  attached  to  the  place,  most 
feathered  folk  having  a strong  “ homing  instinct.” 
When  winter  comes,  they  and  their  progeny  are 
forced  to  retire  to  the  south ; but  they  do  not  for- 
get their  pleasant  summer  haunt,  their  Mecca  in 
the  north,  and  therefore,  at  the  approach  of  the 
following  spring,  they  obey  the  home  impulse  and 
hie  by  easy  stages  to  the  beloved  spot.  Some  of 
their  number  doubtless  find  it  possible  from  time  to 
time  to  push  farther  northward,  and  thus  other 
breeding-haunts  are  selected.  As  the  glacial  ac- 
cumulations melt  away,  the  whole  temperate  region 
and  a large  part  of  the  frigid  zone  become  habitable. 
All  this  takes  place  by  a very  gradual  process,  re- 
quiring thousands  of  years,  thus  giving  ample  time 
for  heredity  to  infuse  the  migratory  habit  into  the 
nature  of  the  birds.  Every  new  generation  would 
learn  the  route  and  other  needful  details  from 
their  predecessors,  and  thus  the  process  would  go 
on  in  an  unending  circuit  year  by  year. 

After  the  foregoing  was  written,  my  attention  was 
called  to  the  following  quotation  from  Dr.  J.  A. 


8o 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


Allen’s  valuable  paper  on  the  “ Origin  of  the  In- 
stinct of  Migration  in  Birds.”  The  extract  is  taken 
from  an  article  by  Frank  M.  Chapman,  published  in 
“ The  Auk  ” for  January,  1894  : “ Nothing  is  doubtless 
more  thoroughly  established  than  that  a warm  tem- 
perate or  sub-tropical  climate  prevailed  down  to  the 
close  of  the  Tertiary  epoch,  nearly  to  the  Northern 
Pole,  and  that  climate  was  previously  everywhere  so 
far  equable  that  the  necessity  for  migration  can 
hardly  be  supposed  to  have  existed.  With  the  later 
refrigeration  of  the  northern  regions,  bird  life  must 
have  been  crowded  thence  toward  the  tropics,  and 
the  struggle  for  life  thereby  greatly  intensified.  The 
less  yielding  forms  may  have  become  extinct ; those 
less  sensitive  to  climatic  change  would  seek  to  extend 
the  boundaries  of  their  range  by  a slight  removal 
northward  during  the  milder  intervals  of  summer, 
only,  however,  to  be  forced  back  again  by  the  recur- 
rence of  winter.  Such  migration  must  have  been  at 
first  incipient  and  gradual,’  extending  and  strength- 
ening as  the  cold  wave  receded,  and  opened  up  a 
wider  area  within  which  existence  in  summer  became 
possible.  What  was  at  first  a forced  migration 
would  become  habitual,  and  through  the  heredity 
of  habit  give  rise  to  that  wonderful  faculty  which 
we  term  the  instinct  of  migration.”  The  reader’s 
attention  is  also  directed  to  Mr.  Chapman’s  own 
article  in  the  number  of  “ The  Auk  ” indicated. 

It  may  be  asked  why  some  species  remain  in 
torrid  and  temperate  climates,  while  others  wing 
their  way  to  the  far  north,  even  beyond  the  boun- 


WINGED  VOYAGERS. 


8l 


clary  of  the  Arctic  Circle.  My  answer  is,  There  is 
some  Power  that  has  wisely  arranged  all  these  mat- 
ters, either  by  gradual  development  or  by  an  original 
creative  fiat.  Every  species  is  made  to  fit  with  nice 
precision  into  its  peculiar  niche  in  the  creation. 
Perhaps  Bryant  suggests  the  true  explanation  in  his 
poem  entitled  “To  a Waterfowl”  : — 

“ There  is  a Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 

The  desert  and  illimitable  air, 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost.” 

This  may  seem  like  begging  the  question ; yet,  to 
my  mind,  it  is  impossible  to  develop  a philosophy 
of  the  universe  without  assuming  an  original  crea- 
tive Intelligence.  True,  the  laws  of  evolution  will 
account  for  many  of  the  details,  and  birds,  like  men, 
are  empowered  in  a large  measure  to  work  out  their 
own  destiny ; but  somewhere  there  must  be  a Power 
that  has  infused  into  Nature  all  these  wonderful  po- 
tentialities of  development.  Involution  must  pre- 
cede evolution. 

But  this  is  speculation.  Account  for  them  as  we 
may,  the  facts  are  evident.  Within  the  circle  of  my 
own  observation  there  is  abundant  proof  of  this  varied 
but  wise  adaptation  in  Nature.  There,  for  example, 
is  the  tiny  golden-crested  kinglet,  which  remains  here 
all  winter,  no  matter  how  severe  the  weather,  and 
seems  to  be  the  embodiment  of  good  cheer;  whereas 
the  brown  thrasher,  a bird  many  times  as  large, 
would  be  likely  to  perish  in  the  first  snow-squall. 
Then,  when  spring  arrives,  Master  Kinglet  hies  to 
6 


82 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


the  north  for  the  breeding-season,  while  Monsieur 
Thrasher  comes  up  from  the  south  and  becomes 
my  alb  summer  intimate. 

Another  matter  of  intense  interest  concerning  bird 
migration  is  that  the  migrants  which  winter  farthest 
north  are,  as  a rule,  the  first  to  arrive  in  the  spring 
at  their  summer  homes  or  vernal  feeding-grounds. 
For  instance,  in  the  latter  part  of  March  or  the 
beginning  of  April,  while  the  thrashers,  cat-birds, 
and  others  which  winter  in  our  Southern  States,  are 
arriving  in  New  England,  New  York,  Pennsylvania, 
and  Ohio,  the  warbler  army,  which  spends  the  winter 
in  the  West  Indies,  Yucatan,  and  Central  America, 
is  just  crossing  over  from  those  countries  to  the 
southern  borders  of  the  United  States. 

When  autumn  comes,  experience  has  taught  the 
migrants  that  their  only  safety  lies  in  making  their 
way  to  the  south  before  cold  weather  sets  in ; for 
many  of  them  certainly  do  start  on  this  voyage 
long  before  winter  drives  them  from  their  northern 
haunts.  In  my  opinion,  they  are  gifted  with  suf- 
ficient reason  — call  it  instinct,  if  you  like  — to  do 
this,  and  I do  not  think  they  are  moved  by  an 
uncontrollable  impulse  which  acts  upon  them  as 
if  they  were  mere  automata. 

Portions  of  the  migrating  army  often  overlap. 
For  example,  the  juncos  and  tree-sparrows  are 
winter  residents  in  my  neighborhood,  but  very 
frequently  they  remain  here  a month  or  more  after 
the  earliest  arrivals  from  the  south.  Presently, 
however,  they  grow  nervous,  flit  about  uneasily, 


WINGED  VOYAGERS. 


S3 


trill  little  snatches  of  song,  inure  themselves  to 
flight  by  longer  or  shorter  excursions  about  the 
country,  and  then  join  the  northward  procession 
en  route  for  their  breeding-haunts  in  British  Amer- 
ica. With  regret  I bid  them  adieu,  but  find  com- 
pensation in  the  knowledge  that  their  places  will 
be  supplied  by  a brilliant  company  of  summer 
residents. 

One  of  the  strangest  features  of  migration  is  the 
fact  that  a bird  will  sometimes  make  the  voyage 
from  north  to  south,  and  vice  versa  — or  a part  of 
the  voyage  — alone,  at  least  as  far  as  companionship 
with  individuals  of  its  own  kind  is  concerned. 
Whether  this  is  done  advertently  or  inadvertently  I 
am  unable  to  say,  but  the  fact  cannot  be  disputed. 
In  the  spring  of  1892,  as  noted  in  another  chapter, 
a hooded  warbler  was  flitting  about  a gravel  bank  in 
a wooded  hollow,  and  although  I scoured  the  coun- 
try for  miles  around  day  after  day,  I never  met 
another  bird  of  this  species.  The  little  Apollo  in 
feathers  was  so  gentle  and  familiar  that  surely  his 
mates  would  not  have  escaped  my  notice  had  there 
been  any  in  the  neighborhood.  Why  he  preferred 
to  travel  alone,  or  in  company  with  other  species 
rather  than  his  own  kin,  might  be  an  interesting 
problem  in  avian  psychology.  A little  farther  down 
the  glen  a single  mourning  warbler  was  also  seen  at 
almost  the  same  date.  His  companions  had  prob- 
ably wished  him  bon  voyage , and  left  him  to  strike 
out  in  an  independent  course  through  the  trackless 
ocean  of  air. 


84 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


That  the  army  of  migrants  travel  mostly  by  night 
is  a well-known  fact  that  can  be  verified  by  any  one 
who  will  stand  out-of-doors  and  listen  to  their  chirp- 
ing overhead.  They  seem  to  move  in  loose  flocks, 
for  there  are  intervals  of  complete  silence,  followed 
by  a promiscuous  chirping  from  many  throats.  Nor 
are  these  nocturnal  calls  all  uttered  by  a single 
species,  but  usually  a number  of  species  seem  to  be 
travelling  in  company.  One  might  say,  therefore, 
that  the  feathered  army  moves  in  squads.  As  they 
travel  in  the  dark,  very  little  can  be  said  about  their 
flight ; but  every  student  has  found  species  of  birds 
in  an  early  morning  ramble  which  he  could  not  find 
anywhere  on  the  previous  day,  proving  that  they  must 
have  arrived  in  the  night.  Here  is  a single  excerpt 
— many  might  be  given  — from  my  note-book  : “ On 
the  third  of  March,  1894, 1 took  a long  stroll  into  the 
country,  remaining  in  the  fields  until  dusk  ; not  a 
single  meadow-lark  was  to  be  seen  or  heard.  At 
daybreak  next  morning,  however,  the  shrill  whistle 
of  I know  not  how  many  larks  rose  like  musical 
incense  from  the  fields  and  commons  in  the  rear  of 
my  house.  Depend  upon  it,  had  these  lavish  min- 
strels been  in  the  neighborhood  during  the  previous 
afternoon,  they  would  not  have  escaped  my  atten- 
tion, for  they  could  not  have  kept  their  music  in 
their  larynxes,  not  they  ! There  is  a cog  in  Nature’s 
machinery  lost  if  the  meadow-larks  are  silent  for 
a half  day  in  the  spring.” 

In  1885  Mr.  William  Brewster,  the  well-known 
ornithologist,  made  some  intensely  interesting  dis- 


WINGED  VOYAGERS . 


§5 


coveries  on  the  nocturnal  flight  of  migrants,  at  Point 
Lepreaux  Lighthouse,  New  Brunswick.  The  prin- 
cipal lantern,  which  was  in  the  top  of  the  tower, 
cast  a light  that  could  be  seen  fifteen  miles  away  in 
clear  weather.  Even  on  dark  and  foggy  nights  this 
lantern  would  throw  out  a strong  light  to  such  a dis- 
tance that  a bird  coming  into  the  lighted  area  could 
readily  be  seen.  On  stormy  nights  the  lighthouse 
seemed  to  possess  a fatal  attraction  for  the  lost  and 
rain-beaten  birds,  which  would  fly  toward  it  and 
often  dash  against  the  glass,  the  roof,  and  other 
portions  of  the  tower  with  such  force  that  they 
fell  dead  or  disabled.  Mr.  Brewster  could  see 
them  approaching  in  the  prism  of  light,  some  dash- 
ing themselves  with  fatal  effect  against  the  tower, 
but  more,  fortunately,  turning  aside  or  gliding 
upward  over  the  roof,  and  then  pressing  on  toward 
the  west  with  incessant  chirping.  During  rainy 
weather  a larger  proportion  would  strike  the  brilliant 
obstruction. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  different  species 
composed  the  companies  that  passed  the  lighthouse. 
For  instance,  on  the  night  of  September  first,  seven 
different  species  of  warblers  and  one  red-eyed  vireo 
were  killed  or  disabled,  and  one  Traill’s  flycatcher 
entered  the  mouth  of  the  ventilator,  and  came  down 
through  it  into  the  lantern.  A few  evenings  later, 
about  forty  per  cent  of  the  specimens  identified  were 
Maryland  yellow- throats,  forty  per  cent  more  red- 
eyed vireos,  and  the  remaining  twenty  per  cent 
weie  made  up  of  two  kinds  of  thrushes  and  six  kinds 


86 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


of  warblers.  These  figures  are  given  to  show  the 
heterogeneous  composition  of  the  migrant  army. 

Mr.  Brewster  also  found  that  no  birds  came  about 
the  lantern  except  on  densely  cloudy  or  foggy 
nights,  and  that  they  came  in  the  greatest  numbers 
when  the  first  hour  or  two  of  the  evening  had  been 
clear  and  was  succeeded  by  fog  or  storm.  These  data 
would  seem  to  prove  that  the  birds  began  their  noc- 
turnal journey  with  the  expectation  of  having  pleas- 
ant weather,  and  when  the  fog  or  storm  rose  later  in 
the  evening,  they  flew  lower  and  got  bewildered  by 
the  glare  of  the  lighthouse. 

Many  theories  of  bird  migration  have  been  pro- 
posed and  argued  at  length,  but,  on  the  whole,  I 
incline  to  Mr.  Brewster’s  theory  that  the  old  birds, 
having  learned  the  advantage  of  these  semi-annual 
expeditions,  and  having  also  determined  the  route  by 
means  of  certain  landmarks,  act  as  aerial  pilots  to 
the  army  of  young  birds  to  whom  the  way  is  still 
unknown.  Mountain  ranges,  river  valleys,  coast 
lines,  and  sheets  of  landlocked  water  doubtless  serve 
the  purpose  of  guide-posts  to  these  airy  travellers. 
Much  as  has  been  written  on  the  subject,  however, 
there  still  remains  a large  field  for  original  research. 


PLUMAGE  OF  YOUNG  BIRDS. 


87 


VII. 

PLUMAGE  OF  YOUNG  BIRDS. 

IT  is  surprising  what  odd  and  variegated  costumes 
are  sometimes  worn  by  the  juvenile  members 
of  the  bird  community.  Frequently  their  attire  is 
so  different  from  that  of  their  elders  that  even  the 
expert  ornithologist  may  be  sorely  puzzled  to  deter- 
mine the  category  to  which  they  belong ; yet  there 
are  usually  some  characteristic  markings,  however 
obscure,  by  which  their  places  in  the  avian  system 
may  be  fixed.  As  a rule,  the  plumage  of  young 
birds  is  more  striped  and  mottled  than  that  of  mature 
specimens,  Nature  playing  some  odd  pranks  of  color- 
mixing in  tiding  a bird  over  from  callow  infancy  to 
full-fledged  life.  Fashion  plates  in  the  world  of 
bantlings  would  be  of  little  account,  as  no  fixed 
patterns  are  followed. 

Some  parts  of  the  growing  bird’s  plumage  change 
to  the  normal  color  sooner  than  others.  I remem- 
ber a young  male  indigo  bird  that  I saw  in  October, 
whose  garb,  just  after  fledging,  must  have  been  a 
warm  brown  almost  like  that  of  the  adult  female  ; 
but  now  he  had  cast  off  a part  of  his  infantile  robes, 
and  put  on  in  their  stead  the  cerulean  of  his  male 
parent ; his  tail,  rump,  and  the  base  of  his  wings 


88 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


were  blue,  while  the  rest  of  his  plumage  was  brown. 
He  made  a unique  and  pretty  picture  as  he  sat 
atilt  on  a blackberry  stem,  asking  me  with  loud 
Tsips  to  admire  his  quaint  toilet.  Early  in  the 
spring  I have  seen  indigo  birds  in  whose  plumage 
the  tints  were  quite  differently  blended  and  arranged. 

What  a party-colored  suit  the  young  bluebird 
wears  ! His  breast,  instead  of  being  plain  brick-red 
as  in  the  case  of  the  adult  bird,  is  profusely  striped 
with  dark  brown  on  a background  of  soiled  white ; 
and  his  upper  parts,  in  lieu  of  the  warm  azure  of 
riper  years,  are  a lustrous  brown  curiously  mottled 
with  tear-shaped  blocks  of  white ; while  his  wings 
and  tail  have  already  assumed  the  normal  blue  of 
this  species.  In  the  days  of  his  youth  the  chipping- 
sparrow  also  dons  a striped  vest,  so  that,  if  it  were 
not  for  his  smaller  size,  it  would  be  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  his  relative,  the  grass-finch. 

My  admiration  was  especially  stirred,  one  mid- 
summer day,  by  the  dainty  appearance  of  a small 
coterie  of  bush-sparrows  flitting  about  on  a railroad 
which  I was  pursuing  on  foot ; a large  patch  on 
their  wings  was  of  a dark,  glossy  brown  tint, 
extremely  pretty,  and  looking  precisely  as  if  it  had 
been  painted  by  the  deft  hand  of  ap  artist.  Their 
under  parts  were  variously  streaked  with  white  and 
dusk.  At  first  I scarcely  recognized  my  familiar 
little  sylvan  friends ; but  their  intimacy  with  several 
adult  specimens,  as  well  as  several  well-known  diag- 
nostic markings,  settled  the  question  of  their  identity 
beyond  a doubt. 


PLUMAGE  OF  YOUNG  BIRDS . 89 

Not  every  person  is  aware  that  the  common  red- 
headed woodpecker  is  no  red-head  at  all  during  the 
first  summer  of  his  buoyant  young  life,  but  a black- 
head instead,  or,  rather,  his  head  and  neck  are  very 
dark  gray.  However,  one  day  in  September  I was 
delighted  and  amused  to  find  an  adolescent  wood- 
pecker whose  head  and  neck  were  beginning  to 
turn  quite  reddish,  flecked  everywhere  with  white, 
giving  him  a decidedly  picturesque  appearance  as 
he  scuddled  up  an  oblique  fence-stake.  Of  course 
the  red- head  is  always  sui  generis,  but  in  this  case 
he  seemed  to  be  more  so  than  usual.  Nearly  all 
the  woodpeckers  — the  downy,  the  hairy,  and  the 
golden- winged  — are  devoid  of  the  red  spots  on 
their  heads,  while  young,  to  prevent  them,  I suppose, 
from  becoming  vain. 

Sometimes  an  entirely  foreign  tint  is  introduced 
into  the  plumage  of  the  young  bird  during  his  tran- 
sition state.  One  day  I was  surprised  to  observe 
a decidedly  bluish  cast  on  the  striped  breast  of  a 
young  towhee  bunting,  which  was  all  the  more 
curious  because  there  is  no  blue  whatever  in  the 
plumage  of  either  the  adult  male  or  female.  But 
the  most  curious  freak  of  Nature’s  dyeing  I have 
ever  seen  in  the  bird  world  was  in  the  case  of  a 
young  scarlet  tanager,  whose  body,  including  the 
wings,  was  completely  girded  with  a band  of  white, 
the  border  of  which  was  quite  irregular.  As  every 
observer  knows,  the  only  colors  visible  in  the  adult 
male’s  plumage  are  black  and  scarlet ; still,  when 
the  scarlet  feathers  are  pushed  aside,  they  show 


9o 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


white  underneath,  and  that  may  account  for  the 
albino  quality  of  this  specimen. 

When  he  is  first  fledged,  the  pattern  of  the  young 
cardinal  grossbeak’s  plumage  very  much  resembles 
that  of  his  mother ; but  soon  the  bright  red  of  his 
full  dress  begins  to  peep  here  and  there  through  the 
grayish-olive  of  his  kilts  and  trousers,  so  to  speak, 
making  him  look  as  if  he  had  been  meddling  with  a 
keg  of  red  paint  and  had  splashed  himself  liberally 
with  it.  By  and  by  there  is  a very  odd  blending  of 
tints  in  his  suit.  Scarcely  less  curious  is  the  garb 
of  the  young  white-crowned  sparrow ; his  whole 
head  is  black  or  blackish- brown,  except  a tiny  speck 
of  white  in  the  centre  of  the  crown,  gleaming  like 
a diamond  in  its  dark  setting.  In  the  adult  bird 
the  whole  crown  is  a glistening  white,  bordered  on 
each  side  by  a black  band,  which  circles  about  on 
the  forehead  and  separates  the  crown-piece  from 
the  white  superciliary  line. 

Some  of  the  warblers  are  scarcely  recognizable  in 
their  juvenile  attire.  For  example,  the  young  black- 
poll,  bay-breasted,  and  chestnut-sided  warblers  bear 
little,  if  any,  resemblance  to  their  parents,  whose 
diversified  nuptial  robes  make  our  woodlands  radiant 
in  the  spring.  The  young  are  quite  tame  in  their 
soiled  olive  plumes,  and  look  so  much  alike  that 
the  ornithologist  is  often  at  his  wits’  end  to  tell 
them  apart.  Were  it  not  for  the  yellow  rumps  of  the 
magnolia  and  myrtle  warblers  when  young,  one 
would  scarcely  know  them  from  a dozen  other 
species  as  they  pursue  their  journey  southward  in 


PLUMAGE  OF  YOUNG  BIRDS.  9 1 

the  autumn.  The  Maryland  yellow-throat  does  not 
deign  to  wear  his  black  mask  until  he  is  about  eight 
months  old,  and  the  boy  redstart  contents  himself 
with  his  mamma’s  style  of  dress  until  he  returns  in 
the  spring  from  his  sojourn  in  the  south,  and  does 
not  seem  to  be  ashamed  to  be  tied  to  her  apron- 
string. And  there  is  that  natty  little  dandy,  the 
ruby-crowned  kinglet  — it  is  said,  on  good  authority, 
that  he  must  be  two  years  old  before  he  is  entitled 
to  wear  the  ruby  gem  in  his  forehead ; which  must 
be  a sore  deprivation  for  this  little  aristocrat  in 
feathers.  Perhaps  in  kingletdom  a bird  does  not 
become  of  age  until  he  is  two  years  old. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  study  of  ornithology 
is  made  more  difficult,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
interesting,  by  this  change  of  toilet  among  the  birds, — 
more  difficult,  because  the  observer  must  learn  to 
identify  the  birds  in  their  youthful  as  well  as  in  their 
adult  plumage ; and  more  interesting,  because  of 
the  greater  variety  thus  given  to  this  branch  of 
scientific  inquiry. 


92 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


VIII. 

NEST-HUNTING. 

NOTHING  in  Nature  is  more  pregnant  with 
suggestion  than  the  nest  of  a bird.  The 
story  of  one  of  these  deftly  woven  dwellings  in  the 
woods,  if  fully  written,  might  prove  almost  as  weird 
and  romantic  as  the  history  of  a castle  on  the  Rhine. 
What  madrigals,  what  paeans,  have  been  sung,  and 
what  victories  celebrated,  from  the  time  the  first 
fibres  were  braided  until  the  chirping  nestlings  were 
able  to  shift  for  themselves  ! And,  alas,  how  many 
fond  hopes  have  perished  as  well ! No  doubt  the 
ruses  and  subterfuges  employed  to  elude  cunning 
foes  or  ward  off  their  murderous  attacks,  would  fill 
a volume  of  valuable  information  on  military  tactics. 
One  might  write  comedies  or  tragedies  about  the 
nest-life  of  the  birds  that  would  be  no  less  inter- 
esting than  realistic.  More  than  that,  the  study  of 
these  wonderful  fabrics  would  virtually  be  a study 
of  the  psychology  of  the  feathered  artisans,  each 
nest  being  an  index  of  a special  type  of  mind  and 
a measure  of  the  bird’s  mental  resources.  As 
William  Hamilton  Gibson  has  well  said  : “ To  know 
the  nidification  and  nest-life  of  a bird  is  to  get  the 


NEST-HUNTING. 


93 


cream  of  its  history  ; ” than  which  nothing  could  be 
truer  or  more  aptly  expressed. 

No  wonder  the  poets  have  so  often  been  thrown 
into  lyrical  moods  over  the  homesteads  of  the  birds  ! 
Mrs.  Margaret  E.  Sangster’s  poem  on  “ The  Build- 
ing of  the  Nest  ” is  perhaps  not  unfamiliar  to  most 
readers ; but  one  stanza  is  so  graceful  and  rhythmi- 
cal that  it  begs  for  quotation  at  this  point : — 

“They  ’ll  come  again  to  the  apple-tree  — 

Robin  and  all  the  rest  — 

When  the  orchard  branches  are  fair  to  see 
In  the  snow  of  blossoms  dressed, 

And  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  will  be 
The  building  of  the  nest.” 

In  one  of  my  rambles  I found  an  abandoned 
towhee  bunting’s  nest  containing  three  eggs,  and 
could  not  help  speculating  as  to  the  cause  of  its 
desertion.  Might  there  have  been  a quarrel 
between  husband  and  wife,  making  a separation 
necessary?  I am  loath  to  believe  it,  although,  if 
certain  acute  observers  are  correct,  divorce  is  not 
wholly  unknown  in  the  bird  community.  But  in 
this  case  I am  inclined  to  think  that  some  enemy 
had  destroyed  the  female,  for  a male  flitted  about 
in  the  bushes,  calling  a good  deal  and  singing  at 
intervals,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a plaintive  note 
in  his  song,  as  if  he  might  be  chanting  an  elegy. 
At  all  events,  the  pair  that  built  the  nest  had  had 
their  tragedy. 

Every  bird-student  must  admit  that  his  quest  for 
nests  often  ends  in  disappointment,  because  many 


94 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


birds  are  adepts  at  concealment,  while  others  build 
in  places  where  you  would  not  think  of  looking. 
However,  I have  had  but  little  difficulty  in  finding 
the  nests  of  the  brown  thrasher,  which  erects  an 
inartistic  platform  of  sticks,  bound  together  by  a few 
grass  fibres,  and  thus  is  easily  descried  in  the  bushes, 
where  it  is  usually  placed.  Early  in  the  spring  I 
found  the  nest  of  a pair  of  these  birds  in  a thick 
clump  of  bushes  near  the  edge  of  a woodland,  and 
resolved  to  keep  watch  over  it  until  the  young 
family  had  left  their  home.  The  parent  birds  in 
this  case  were  very  solicitous  for  the  safety  of  their 
young.  Every  time  I called  they  set  up  a pitiful 
to-do,  which  invariably  made  me  hurry  away,  after 
a timid  peep  into  the  cradle.  There  is  as  much 
difference  in  the  temperaments  of  birds  of  the  same 
species  as  there  is  among  persons  belonging  to  the 
same  family.  While  the  thrashers  in  question 
seemed  to  be  terrified  at  my  presence,  others 
driven  from  their  nests  displayed  little  or  no  fear, 
but  sat  quietly  on  a perch  near  by  and  allowed  me 
to  examine  their  domicile  without  so  much  as  a 
chirp. 

The  brown  thrasher  has  surprised  me  by  the 
variety  of  places  he  selects  for  building  his  log 
house.  Wilson  Flagg  in  his  book,  “A  Year  with 
the  Birds,’ ’ says  that  this  bird  usually  builds  on  the 
ground ; and  Mr.  Eldridge  E.  Fish,  who  writes 
pleasantly  about  the  birds  of  western  New  York, 
bears  similar  testimony.  Perhaps  thrasher-fashion 
in  New  England  and  New  York  differs  from 


NEST-HUNTING. 


95 


thrasher-fashion  in  Ohio  (in  which  locality  the 
birds  display  the  best  taste  I will  not  say)  ; for 
during  the  spring  of  1890  I found  but  two  nests 
on  the  ground,  and  was  surprised  to  find  even  them, 
while  at  least  fifteen  were  discovered  in  other  places. 
Most  of  them  were  on  low  thorn-bushes,  but  not  all. 
One  was  built  in  a brush-heap,  one  on  a pile  of 
“ cord-wood,”  another  on  a small  stump  screened 
by  some  bushes,  and  two  on  a rail  fence.  Of  the 
last  two,  one  was  partly  supported  by  poison-ivy 
vines  and  partly  by  a rail ; the  other  was  built 
entirely  on  a rail  in  a projecting  corner  of  the 
fence. 

The  thrasher,  as  has  been  said,  builds  an  artless 
platform  of  sticks  that  in  some  cases  barely  holds 
together  long  enough  to  answer  the  purpose  for 
which  it  was  intended.  In  this  respect  its  habits 
differ  from  those  of  the  wood-thrush,  a bird  that 
is  very  abundant  and  musical  in  my  neighborhood. 
I have  found  many  of  the  wood-thrush’s  nests, 
which  are  built  in  the  crotches  of  small  saplings  in 
the  thickest  part  of  the  woods,  and  are  made  almost 
as  substantial  as  the  adobe  dwellings  of  the  robin. 
The  thrush  does  not  use  as  much  mortar  as  his  red- 
breasted relative ; otherwise  there  is  a close  resem- 
blance between  the  nests  of  the  two  birds. 

It  was  amusing  to  find  pieces  of  newspaper 
bedizening  the  houses  of  the  wood-thrushes  so 
frequently,  though  it  cannot  be  said  that  they 
showed  the  highest  literary  taste  in  their  selec- 
tions ; for  one  or  two  of  the  fragments  contained 


9 6 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


accounts  of  political  caucuses.  However,  it  would 
be  too  much  to  assume  that  the  birds  had  read 
them,  as  many  of  us  “ humans  ” find  such  literature 
too  deep  for  our  comprehension.  I shall  neither 
eulogize  nor  stigmatize  this  favorite  minstrel  by 
calling  him  a politician,  although  if  one  were  to 
regard  his  nesting-habits  alone,  he  deserves  that 
sobriquet  quite  as  well  as  the  white-eyed  vireo. 

That  parasite  among  American  birds,  the  female 
cow-bunting,  audaciously  spirits  her  eggs  into  the 
wood-thrush’s  nest,  to  be  hatched  with  those  that 
properly  belong  there,  while  she  and  her  mate  sit  in 
the  trees  near  by  and  whistle  their  taunting  airs,  and 
watch  to  see  whether  their  dupe  attends  faithfully  to 
the  additional  household  cares  imposed  upon  her. 
When  the  birds  are  hatched,  the  victim  of  this  piece 
of  imposture  innocently  feeds  her  foster  children 
with  the  best  tidbits  she  can  find,  spite  of  the  fact 
that  they  may  soon  crowd  her  own  offspring  out  of 
the  nest-home.  The  wonder  is  that  she  does  not 
discover  the  trick  at  once ; for  her  eggs  are  deep 
blue,  while  the  cow-bird’s  are  white,  speckled  with 
ashy  brown.  Can  the  wood- thrush  be  color-blind  ? 

About  two  miles  from  town,  along  the  banks  of  a 
small  creek,  was  the  nest  of  that  interesting  little 
bird,  the  summer  warbler,  — a dainty  structure,  com- 
posed of  downy  material,  and  deftly  lodged  among 
the  twigs  of  a sapling  at  the  foot  of  a cliff.  A cold 
spring  gurgled  from  the  rocks  near  by ; the  willows 
and  buttonwood  trees  bent  to  the  balmy  breezes, 
and  the  tinkling  of  the  brook  mingled  with  the  songs 


NEST-HUNTING. 


97 


of  many  birds.  A place  for  day-dreams  truly,  and 
the  summer  warblers  were  the  dryads  and  nymphs 
hitting  through  the  realms  of  fancy.  If  all  birds  were 
as  astute  as  the  summer  warbler,  the  race  of  cow- 
buntings  would  soon  become  extinct,  or  would  soon 
have  to  change  their  methods  of  propagation,  and  go 
to  rearing  their  own  families.  Our  little  strategist, 
when  she  comes  home  and  finds  a cowbird’s  egg 
dropped  into  her  nest,  begins  forthwith  to  add  another 
story,  and  thus  leaves  the  interloper  in  the  cellar, 
with  a floor  between  it  and  her  warm  breast.  It 
is  a genuine  case  of  “ being  left  out  in  the  cold.” 
I have  found  several  of  these  exquisite  towers  that 
were  three  stories  high,  on  the  top  of  which  the 
little  bird  sat  perched  like  a goddess  on  the  summit 
of  Olympus.  (My  simile  may  seem  a trifle  far- 
fetched, but  I shall  let  it  stand.)  But  why,  you 
dear  little  sprite,  do  you  not  merely  pitch  the  offen- 
sive egg  out  of  the  nest,  instead  of  going  to  all  the 
trouble  of  building  a loft  ? No  answer,  save  an 
untranslatable  trill,  comes  from  the  throat  of  the 
dainty  minstrel.1 

Some  years  ago  I witnessed  a curious  bit  of  bird- 
behavior  that  I have  never  seen  described  in  any  of 
the  numerous  books  on  ornithology  which  I have 

1 Mr.  Eldridge  E.  Fish,  to  whom  reference  has  already 
been  made,  after  reading  this  article,  which  first  appeared 
in  a weekly  paper,  suggested  in  a letter  that  the  little  warbler 
could  not  well  remove  the  intruded  egg  without  breaking  it, 
which  would  spoil  her  nest  altogether.  Hence  she  simply 
adds  another  story  to  her  dwelling.  This  is  doubtless  the 
true  explanation. 


7 


98 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


consulted.  I make  reference  to  it  here  for  the  first 
time.  I was  strolling  along  the  banks  of  a broad 
river  in  northern  Indiana  on  the  first  of  June,  when 
a warm,  steady  rain  set  in.  How  the  birds  contrive 
to  keep  their  eggs  and  nestlings  dry  during  a shower 
had  long  been  an  enigma  to  me,  and  now  was  my 
time  to  find  out.  Knowing  where  a summer  warbler 
had  built  her  nest  in  some  bushes,  I cautiously  ap- 
proached, and  then  stood  looking  down  on  the  bird 
before  me,  which  showed  no  disposition  to  leave  her 
progeny  to  the  mercy  of  the  elements.  It  was  a 
picture  indeed!  The  darling  little  mother  — how 
can  one  help  using  an  endearing  term  ! — sat  with 
her  wings  and  tail  spread  out  gracefully  over  the  rim 
of  the  nest  all  the  way  round,  thus  making  a perfect 
umbrella  of  her  lithe,  dainty  body. 

Nothing  could  differ  more  from  the  airy  out-door 
nest  of  the  summer  warbler  than  the  dark  subter- 
ranean caverns  of  the  swallows  in  the  bank  of  the 
creek.  One  day,  while  sauntering  along  a stream,  I 
noticed  a hole  in  the  opposite  bank.  I passed  on, 
but  on  second  thought  turned  to  look  at  the  excava- 
tion a little  more  closely,  when  a swallow  darted  like 
an  arrow  into  it,  and  in  a few  moments  made  as 
quick  an  exit.  Wading  across  the  creek,  I thrust 
my  walking-stick,  which  was  almost  four  feet  long, 
into  the  orifice  over  its  entire  length  without  reach- 
ing the  end  ! Why  a bird,  so  neat  in  attire  and  so 
agile  on  the  wing,  should  build  her  nest  in  a dark 
Erebus  like  that,  is  a Sphinx’s  riddle  that  must  be 
left  to  wiser  heads  to  solve. 


NEST-HUNTING. 


99 


What  a contrast  is  the  open-air  hammock  of  the 
Baltimore  oriole,  swinging  from  the  flexible  branches 
of  a buttonwood  tree  a little  farther  up  the  stream  1 
How  softly  the  chirping  brood  within  is  rocked  by 
the  breezes  that  sweep  down  from  the  slopes,  laden 
with  the  odor  of  clover  blossoms  ! Somewhere  near 
there  must  be  a warbling  vireo’s  nest,  for  one  of 
these  birds  is  singing  in  the  trees ; but  my  eyes  are 
not  sharp  enough  to  descry  its  pensile  domicile. 

On  my  way  home,  on  the  top  of  a hill,  I step 
casually  up  to  a small  thorn-bush,  whose  branches 
and  leaves  are  thickly  matted  together,  and,  as  I 
push  the  foliage  aside,  there  is  a flutter  of  wings, 
followed  by  a rapid  chirping,  and  a little  bird  flits 
away,  pretending  to  be  seriously  wounded.  It  is  a 
bush-sparrow.  Cosily  placed  beneath  the  leafy  roof 
among  the  thick  boughs  is  the  procreant  cradle. 
What  could  be  more  dainty  ! A little  nest,  woven 
of  fine  grass-fibres,  deftly  lined  with  hair,  and  con- 
taining four  speckled  eggs,  real  gems.  How  “ beau- 
tiful for  situation  ” is  this  tiny  cottage  on  the  hill  ! 
Here  the  feathered  poets  may  sit  on  their  leafy 
verandas,  look  down  into  the  green  valleys,  and 
compose  verses  on  the  pastoral  attractions  of  Nature. 
One  is  almost  tempted  to  spin  a romance  about  the 
happy  couple. 

On  returning,  one  day,  from  an  ornithological 
jaunt,  I met  my  friend,  the  young  farmer,  who 
knows  something  about  my  furor  for  the  birds. 
There  was  a knowing  smile  on  his  sunburned  face, 
“ I know  where  there  ’s  a killdeer’s  nest,”  he  said  ; 


100 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“ would  you  like  to  see  it?”  Tired  out  as  I was 
with  my  long  walk,  I exclaimed:  “Yes,  sir!  I’ll 
follow  you  to  the  end  of  the  world  to  see  a plover’s 
nest.”  The  sentence  was  added  merely  by  way  of 
mild  (not  wild)  hyperbole.  A shallow  pit  in  the 
open  corn-field,  lined  with  a few  chips  and  pebbles, 
constituted  the  nest  of  the  plover,  not  having  so 
much  as  a spear  of  grass  to  protect  it  from  rain  and 
storm.  It  contained  one  egg  and  a callow  youngster, 
the  egg  being  quite  large  at  one  end  and  pointed  at 
the  other,  which  gave  it  a very  uncouth  shape.  My 
young  friend  informed  me  that  there  had  been  five 
eggs  when  he  found  the  nest,  all  lying  with  their 
acute  ends  toward  the  centre ; the  next  time  he 
went  to  look  there  were  only  four,  then  three,  and 
finally  only  two.  Evidently  the  parent  birds  were 
having  a serious  time  guarding  their  homestead  from 
marauders.  On  going  to  the  place  some  days  later, 
I found  both  the  egg  and  the  baby  plover  gone,  and 
I could  only  hope  that  no  mischance  had  befallen 
them. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  winter  is  a favorable 
season  for  nest-hunting.  True,  the  birds  are  not 
then  at  home,  to  speak  with  a good  deal  of  license, 
or  engaged  in  rearing  families ; but  the  deserted 
structures  may  be  more  readily  found  after  the 
leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees  and  bushes.  As  I 
stroll  through  the  woods  or  the  marsh  on  a winter 
day,  scores  of  nests  that  escaped  my  eye  during  the 
summer  are  to  be  seen.  Especially  is  this  the  case 
after  a snowfall,  for  the  nests  catch  the  descending 


NEST-HUNTING. 


IOI 


flakes  which  are  piled  up  in  them  in  downy  mounds, 
and  thus  attract  the  attention  of  the  observer.  I 
have  often  felt  inclined  to  heap  upon  myself  the 
most  caustic  epithets  for  having  passed  again  and 
again,  during  the  breeding-season,  so  near  the  nest 
of  an  interesting  bird  without  knowing  of  its  exist- 
ence until  winter’s  frosts  had  stripped  the  coppice 
of  its  leaves,  and  have  resolved  as  often  that  the 
next  season  shall  not  find  me  napping. 

In  the  marsh  which  is  one  of  my  favorite  trudging- 
grounds,  I made  a quaint  discovery  some  winters 
ago,  which  has  raised  more  than  one  query  in  my 
mind.  One  day,  after  a snowfall,  I found  many 
deserted  nests  in  the  thickets.  Brushing  the  snow 
out  of  them  revealed,  in  the  bottom  of  each  basket, 
a small  pile  of  the  seeds  and  broken  shells  of  wild- 
rose  and  thorn  berries.  Why  had  the  birds  put 
them  there  — if  it  was  the  birds?  Perhaps  the 
winter  birds,  when  they  arrived  in  the  autumn, 
found  these  old  nests  good  storehouses  in  which  to 
lay  by  their  winter  supplies.  I have  never  seen  the 
birds  feeding  on  them,  but,  as  spring  approached, 
the  berry  seeds  had  nearly  all  disappeared. 

Come  with  me,  for  I know  a pleasant,  half-clois- 
tered field  of  clover  which  is  the  habitat  of  a number 
of  charming  little  birds.  Just  where  it  is  shall 
remain  one  of  my  semi- sylvan  secrets,  for  one  must 
not  betray  all  the  confidences  of  one’s  feathered 
intimates.  The  field  cuts  a right  angle  in  a wood- 
land, by  which  it  is,  therefore,  bounded  on  the  east 
and  north,  while  toward  the  west  and  south  the 


102 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


undulating  country  stretches  away  like  a billowy  sea 
of  green.  The  woods  themselves,  on  the  sides 
adjacent  to  the  field,  are  hemmed  and  fringed  with 
a thick  growth  of  saplings,  bushes,  and  brambles, 
where  the  feathered  husbands  sit  and  hymn  their 
joy  by  the  hour  to  their  little  mates  hugging  their 
nests  in  the  clover  and  the  copse.  It  is  a quiet  spot, 
— one  of  Nature’s  nunneries.  Human  dwellings  may 
be  seen  in  the  distance ; but  it  is  seldom  that  any 
one,  save  a mooning  rambler  like  myself,  goes  there 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  the  feathered  tenants. 

Here,  one  summer  a few  years  ago,  a pair  of 
those  wary  birds  the  yellow-breasted  chats  built  a 
nest,  which  they  placed  snugly  in  the  blackberry 
bushes  that  bordered  and  partly  hid  the  rail-fence. 
I kept  close  reconnoissance  on  this  little  home- 
stead until  the  nascent  inmates  were  about  half- 
fledged,  when,  to  my  dismay,  every  one  of  them 
was  kidnapped  by  some  despicable  nest-robber. 
My  own  sorrow  was  equalled  only  by  the  inexpres- 
sible anguish  of  the  bereaved  parents.  To  add  to 
my  troubles,  a nestful  of  young  indigo-birds  came 
to  grief  in  the  same  way.  There  must  be,  it  seems, 
a system  of  brigandage  in  every  realm,  be  it  human 
or  faunal. 

A pair  of  bush-sparrows,  however,  were  more  for- 
tunate in  their  brood-rearing.  One  day,  while 
standing  near  the  fence,  I noticed  a bush-sparrow, 
bearing  an  insect  in  her  bill,  dart  down  into  the 
clover,  a short  distance  over  in  the  field.  I walked 
to  the  spot,  when  she  flew  up  with  an  uneasy  chirp, 


NES  T -HUNTING. 


103 


proclaiming  a secret  that  she  could  not  keep. 
There  on  the  grass,  sure  enough,  was  her  nestful  of 
little  ones.  Some  accident  must  have  befallen  the 
fibrous  cot,  for  the  weeds  and  clover  were  broken 
down  and  trampled  flat  all  around  it,  so  that  it  sat 
loosely  on  the  ground,  without  even  a blade  of  grass 
to  shelter  it.  Fearing  that  buccaneers  in  the  shape 
of  jays  or  hawks  might  rob  the  nest,  I broke  off  a 
number  of  weeds  and  made  a sort  of  thatched  roof 
over  it ; that  would  also  protect  the  panting  infants 
from  the  sun,  which  was  beating  down  like  a furnace. 
Then  I took  my  stand  a few  rods  away,  to  see  what 
the  old  birds  would  do.  Erelong  both  the  papa 
and  mamma  came  with  billsome  morsels  in  their 
mouths,  and,  after  fluttering  about  uneasily  for  a 
few  minutes,  darted  down  to  the  nest  and  fed  their 
young.  Of  course,  they  first  had  to  peep,  and  peer, 
and  cant  their  dainty  heads  this  way  and  that,  to 
examine  the  roof  I had  improvised  for  the  nest, 
wondering,  no  doubt,  what  kind  of  a bungling  archi- 
tect had  been  at  work  there ; but  finally  they 
seemed  to  think  all  was  well.  Perhaps  in  their 
hearts  they  thanked  me  for  my  thoughtful  care. 

A day  or  two  later  I called  again,  even  at  the  risk 
of  coming  de  trop.  The  weeds  arched  over  the 
bird  crib  at  my  former  visit  having  withered,  I made 
them  another  green  roof,  sheltering  them  as  cosily 
as  I could  and  leaving  a small  opening  at  the  side 
for  an  entrance.  After  an  absence  of  a few  minutes 
I crept  surreptitiously  back  to  the  enchanted  spot,  — 
for  it  drew  me  like  a loadstone,  — and  there  sat  the 


104 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


trim  little  mother  on  her  cradle,  covering  her  chil- 
dren to  keep  them  warm,  her  reddish-brown  tail 
daintily  reaching  out  through  the  doorway.  She  did 
not  fly  up  as  I bent  lovingly  over  her,  and  presently 
I stole  away,  desirous  not  to  disturb  her. 

The  bush-sparrow  is  a captivating  little  bird, 
graceful  of  form  and  sweet  of  voice,  singing  his 
cheerful  trills  from  early  spring  until  far  past  mid- 
summer. The  song  makes  me  think  of  a silver 
thread  running  through  a woof  of  golden  sunshine, 
carried  forward  by  a swinging  shuttle  of  pearl.  I 
think  the  figure  is  not  far-fetched.  He  is  quite 
partial  to  a dense  little  thorn-bush  for  a nesting- 
place,  often  concealing  his  grassy  cottage  so  cun- 
ningly that  you  must  look  sharply  for  it  among  the 
leaves  and  twigs,  or  it  will  escape  your  eye. 

One  of  the  neatest  and  prettiest  denizens  of  my 
clover-field  was  the  goldfinch.  Wings  of  black  and 
coat  of  bright  yellow,  he  went  bounding  through 
the  ether,  rising  and  falling  in  graceful  festoons  of 
flight,  in  such  a lightsome  way  he  seemed  to  be 
rocking  himself  on  the  breeze.  How  jauntily  he 
wore  his  tiny  black  cap,  little  exquisite  of  the  field 
that  he  is,  to  whom  I always  go  hat  in  hand  ! He 
deserves  a monograph  all  to  himself,  but  at  this  time 
I can  spare  him  only  a few  paragraphs. 

As  a rule,  the  goldfinches  prefer  to  build  their 
nests  in  small  trees,  often  selecting  the  maples  along 
the  suburban  streets  of  the  city.  I was  greatly 
surprised,  therefore,  to  find  a nest  in  my  clover- 
field,  where  there  were  no  trees  at  all.  Noticing  a 


NEST-HUNTING . 


io5 

bird  fly  into  a clump  of  blackberry  bushes  one  day, 
I took  it  for  a female  indigo-bird.  A nest  was  soon 
found  woven  very  neatly  and  compactly,  and  having 
not  only  grass-fibres  wrought  into  its  structure,  but 
also  wool  and  thistle-down.  A queer  indigo-bird’s 
nest,  I mused.  The  wool  in  the  cup  was  ruffled 
and  loose,  and  taking  it  for  a deserted  homestead,  I 
carelessly  thrust  my  hand  into  it.  The  next  moment 
I was  sorry  for  the  thoughtless  act,  for  the  material 
looked  so  fresh  that  I decided  it  must  be  an  unfin- 
ished bird-cradle.  I resolved  to  discover  the  own- 
ers, if  possible.  Two  days  later  it  was  in  the  same 
condition.  Had  I driven  away  the  little  builders 
by  laying  defiling  hands  on  the  nest?  I felt  like  a 
culprit,  and  waited  a week  before  again  venturing  to 
visit  the  place,  when,  as  I approached,  a female  gold- 
finch flew  from  the  nest,  uncovering  five  dainty 
white  eggs,  set  like  pearls  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup. 
A goldfinch’s  nest  in  a blackberry  bush  ! That  was 
a climax  of  surprises,  in  very  truth. 

On  the  same  day,  not  far  distant,  another  bush- 
sparrow’s  nest  was  found  in  some  bushes,  placed 
about  three  feet  from  the  ground.  In  a few  weeks 
there  were  babies  five  in  the  goldfinch’s  nest,  and 
four  in  that  of  the  bush-sparrow.  Pray  keep  both 
nests  in  mind,  remembering  that  the  youngsters  of 
both  families  were  hatched  on  the  same  day.  One 
evening  at  twilight  I again  stepped  out  to  the  clover- 
field.  The  mother  goldfinch  was  sitting  close  on  her 
nest,  and  did  not  stir  as  I came  near.  Then  I 
touched  her  lightly  with  my  cane.  Still  she  remained 


io6 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


on  her  nest  as  if  glued  fast,  only  glaring  at  me  with 
her  wild,  beady  eyes.  At  length  I softly  laid  my 
finger  on  her  back,  when  she  uttered  a queer,  half- 
scolding cry,  and  leaped  up  to  the  nest’s  rim,  but 
did  not  fly.  There  she  stood,  turning  her  head  and 
eying  me  keenly  until  I stole  away,  unwilling  to  for- 
feit her  confidence  and  good-will.  But  when,  on 
my  way  home,  I paused  a moment  to  look  at  the 
bush-sparrow’s  nest,  the  mother  flitted  away  with  a 
frightened  chirp  before  I came  within  reach.  She 
was  not  as  confiding  as  her  little  neighbor,  the 
goldfinch. 

Now  mark  ! On  the  fifteenth  of  August  the  young 
bush-sparrows  had  become  so  large  and  well  devel- 
oped that  when,  meaning  no  harm,  I touched  them 
gently  with  my  finger,  they  flipped  out  of  the  nest 
like  flashes  of  lightning.  The  infant  goldfinches 
were  not  yet  more  than  half  fledged,  and  merely 
snuggled  close  to  the  bottom  of  the  nest  when  I 
caressed  them.  The  idea  of  flying  was  still  remote 
from  their  little  pates.  These  observations  prove 
that  young  bush-sparrows  develop  much  more  rap- 
idly than  young  goldfinches ; yet,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  the  goldfinch,  when  grown,  flies  much  higher, 
if  not  more  swiftly,  than  his  little  neighbor,  and 
continues  longer  on  the  wing. 

On  the  same  day  I sat  down  in  the  clover,  a few 
rods  from  the  goldfinch’s  nest,  and  kept  close  watch 
on  both  the  old  birds  and  their  offspring  for  an  hour 
and  a half.  The  sun  attacked  me  savagely  with 
his  red-hot  arrows,  and  the  sweat  broke  from  every 


NES  T-H  UN  TING. 


107 


pore,  but  I felt  amply  repaid  for  my  vigil.  During 
the  first  half-hour  the  parent  birds  ventured  slyly  to 
feed  their  bantlings  twice.  Then  I crept  closer, 
and  waited  an  hour ; but  the  parent  birds  were  too 
shy  to  bring  their  hungry  nestlings  a single  mouth- 
ful of  food,  choosing,  it  would  seem,  to  let  them  suf- 
fer hunger  rather  than  take  risk  themselves.  The 
little  things  were  almost  famished,  and  behaved  very 
quaintly.  Every  rustle  of  the  leaves  in  the  wind 
caused  them  to  start  up,  crane  out  their  necks,  pry 
open  their  mouths  as  wide  as  they  could,  waddle 
awkwardly  from  side  to  side,  and  chirp  for  some- 
thing to  eat.  How  famished  they  were  ! They 
even  seized  one  another’s  heads  and  tried  to  gulp 
one  another  down.  The  spectacle  was  just  a little 
uncanny. 

But,  dear  me  ! they  were  not  as  ignorant  of  the 
ways  of  the  world  as  you  might  suppose.  When  I 
lightly  tapped  the  stems  of  the  bushes  with  my  cane, 
instead  of  leaping  up  and  opening  their  mouths  as 
they  were  expected  to  do,  they  shrank  down  into 
the  bottom  of  the  nest,  discerning  at  once  the  dif- 
ference between  those  strokes  on  the  bush  and  their 
parents’  quiet  approach  or  loving  call.  Something 
must  have  put  them  on  their  guard,  and  instilled 
feelings  of  fear  into  their  palpitating  bosoms.  Per- 
haps it  was  that  shy  personage,  the  mother  herself ; 
for  she  would  call  admonishingly  at  intervals  from 
the  woods,  Ba-bie  / ba-bie ! putting  a pathetic 
accent  on  the  second  syllable.  It  was  droll  to  see 


io8 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


the  youngsters  try  to  preen  their  feathers,  they  went 
about  the  performance  so  awkwardly. 

On  the  seventeenth  of  the  month  one  of  the  nest- 
lings was  missing,  and  no  amount  of  looking  for  it 
in  the  thicket  revealed  any  clew  to  its  whereabouts. 
None  of  the  remaining  birds  were  ready  to  fly. 
Two  days  later  they  were  still  in  the  nest,  although 
they  had  grown  considerably  since  my  last  visit,  so 
that  one  of  them  was  almost  crowded  out  of  the 
circular  trundle-bed.  I could  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  lift  it  in  my  hand,  just  to  see  how  pretty 
it  was  and  how  it  would  act.  It  uttered  a sharp 
cry  of  alarm,  and  sprang  from  my  hand ; but  its 
wings  were  still  so  weak  that  it  merely  fluttered  in 
an  oblique  direction  to  the  ground.  The  third  time 
I caught  it,  it  sat  contentedly  on  my  palm,  and 
allowed  me  to  stroke  its  back,  looking  up  at  its 
captor  with  mingled  wonder  and  trustfulness. 

On  the  heads  of  all  the  nestlings  a fine  down  pro- 
truded up  through  and  above  the  feathers.  The 
birds  looked  very  knowingly  out  of  their  small  coal- 
black  eyes,  but  the  cunning  little  things  obstinately 
refused  to  open  their  mouths  for  me,  entice  them 
as  I would ; however,  when  I moved  away  some 
distance,  and  their  mamma  came  with  a tempting 
morsel,  they  sprang  up  instantly  and  gulped  it  down. 
Not  so  very  unsophisticated,  after  all,  for  mere  bant- 
lings ! On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-sixth  all  the 
young  finches  had  left  the  nest,  and  were  perched  in 
the  bushes  near  by.  I contrived  to  catch  one  of  them 


NES  T-HUNTING. 


J09 


and  hold  him  in  my  hand  a few  moments,  to  admire 
his  dainty  toilet  and  pretty  dark  eyes.  Thus  my 
brief  study  in  comparative  ornithology  proved  that 
the  young  goldfinches  left  the  nest  seven  days  after 
the  young  bush-sparrows,  hatched  at  the  same  time, 
had  taken  wing. 


no 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


IX. 

MIDSUMMER  MELODIES. 

SEVERAL  times  has  the  statement  been  made 
in  print  that  it  is  scarcely  worth  one’s  while 
to  attempt  to  study  the  birds  during  the  midsummer 
months,  the  reason  alleged  being  that  at  that  time 
they  are  silent  and  inactive,  and  their  behavior 
devoid  of  special  interest.  Now,  nothing  ministers 
so  gratefully  to  the  pride  of  the  original  investigator 
as  to  prove  untrue  the  theories  that  have  been 
advanced  in  books  and  that  are  current  among 
scientific  men.  During  the  summer  of  1891  I re- 
solved to  discover  for  myself  what  the  birds  were 
doing,  and  so,  spite  of  drought,  heat,  and  mosqui- 
toes, I visited  the  haunts  of  my  winged  companions 
at  least  every  other  day.  The  result  was  a surprise 
to  myself,  proving  that  the  unwisest  thing  a natu- 
ralist can  do  is  to  lay  down  absolute  canons  of 
conduct  for  feathered  folk. 

It  is  just  possible  that  physical  stupor,  induced 
by  the  extreme  heat  of  summer,  has  caused  some 
ornithologists  to  observe  carelessly  and  listlessly, 
and  for  that  reason  they  have  supposed  that  the 
birds  were  as  languid  as  themselves ; but  the  wide- 
awake student,  who  can  brave  heat  and  cold  alike, 
will  never  find  the  feathered  creation  failing  to 


MIDSUMMER  MELODIES. 


1 1 r 


repay  the  closest  attention.  Some  birds  are  almost 
as  active  when  the  mercury  is  wrestling  with  the 
nineties  as  on  the  fairest  day  of  May,  and  those 
are  the  ones  to  be  studied  in  midsummer. 

My  special  investigations  began  about  the  middle 
of  July.  It  is  true  that  at  that  time  what  are  usually 
regarded  as  the  songsters  of  the  first  class  — the 
brown  thrashers,  wood-thrushes,  cat-birds,  and  bobo- 
links — had  gone  into  a conspiracy  of  silence,  not 
a musical  note  coming  from  their  throats,  although 
some  of  them  always  remain  in  this  latitude  until 
far  into  September.  But  when  the  first-class  min- 
strels are  mute,  one  appreciates  the  minor  vocalists 
all  the  more.  Yet  I must  not  omit  to  say  that  on 
the  thirtieth  of  July  I caught  a fragment  of  a wood- 
thrush’s  song,  the  last  I heard  for  the  season. 

Let  me  recall  one  day  in  particular.  It  was  the 
tenth  of  August,  and  the  weather  was  broiling,  — hot 
enough  to  drive  the  thermometer  into  hysterics, 
just  the  day  to  see  how  the  heat  would  affect  the 
feathered  tenants  of  the  groves ; and  so,  overcoming 
my  physical  inertia  as  best  I could,  I stalked  to 
the  woods  in  the  afternoon  in  quest  of  bird  lore. 
With  the  perspiration  running  from  every  pore,  I 
trudged  about  for  some  time  without  seeing  or  hear- 
ing a single  bird.  Were  the  books  correct,  after  all? 
Was  I to  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  proving 
them  in  error?  It  began  to  appear  as  if  such 
might  be  the  case.  Presently,  however,  as  I pushed 
out  into  a gap  at  one  side  of  the  woods,  an  uneasy 
chirping  in  the  clumps  of  bushes  and  brambles  near 


I I 2 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


by  sent  a thrill  of  gladness  through  my  veins.  I felt 
intuitively  that  there  were  birds  in  abundance  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  my  presentiment  proved  correct ; 
for  before  my  brief  search  was  completed,  I was 
permitted  to  record  the  songs  of  the  indigo-bird, 
the  cardinal  grossbeak,  the  towhee  bunting,  the 
wood-pewee,  the  Baltimore  oriole,  and  the  black- 
capped  chickadee ; while,  no  sooner  had  I stepped 
out  of  the  woods  into  the  adjoining  swamp,  than 
the  song-sparrow  chimed  merrily,  “ Oh,  certainly, 
certainly,  you  must  n’t  forget  me-me-me  ! No-sirree, 
no-sirree  ! ” 

One  of  the  most  blithesome  trillers  of  midsummer 
was  the  grass-finch,  which  sang  his  canticles  until 
about  the  twelfth  of  August,  when  he  suddenly  took 
leave  for  parts  unknown.  It  seemed  to  me  he  sang 
more  vigorously  in  July  than  in  May,  for  several 
times  he  prolonged  his  trill  with  such  splendid 
musical  effect  as  to  make  me  rush  out  to  the  adjoin- 
ing field  to  find  a lark-sparrow.  The  black-throated 
bunting  remained  here  almost  as  long,  rasping  his 
harsh  notes  until  he  also  took  his  flight.  I was 
somewhat  disappointed  in  the  meadow-larks,  having 
heard  but  one  note  from  their  tuneful  throats  during 
August ; but  when  September  came,  they  resumed 
their  shrill  choruses,  which  lasted  until  November, 
increasing  in  vigor  as  the  autumn  advanced. 

The  robins  were  chary  of  their  music,  only  two 
songs  having  been  heard  during  August,  one  of 
them  on  the  fourteenth.  But  the  little  bush-sparrow 
made  ample  compensation,  chanting  his  pensive 


MIDSUMMER  MELODIES . 


11 3 

voluntaries  almost  every  day  at  the  border  of  the 
woods  until  about  the  twentieth  of  August.  Still 
more  lavish  of  his  melody  was  the  indigo-bird,  which 
on  several  occasions  was  the  only  songster,  besides 
the  wood-pewee,  heard  during  a long  stroll  through 
the  woods.  An  irrepressible  minstrel,  he  is  the  most 
cheery  member  of  the  midsummer  chorus.  My 
notes  say  that  the  Maryland  yellow-throat  was  sing- 
ing in  splendid  voice  on  the  first  of  August,  but  I 
am  positive  I heard  him  later  in  the  month,  as  he 
is  one  of  our  most  rollicksome  midsummer  choralists. 
The  goldfinch  sang  cheerily  on  the  first,  eighteenth, 
and  nineteenth  of  August,  and  I cannot  say  how 
often  in  July  and  August  I heard  the  loud  refrain 
of  the  Carolina  wren. 

On  the  tenth,  twelfth,  fourteenth,  eighteenth, 
and  nineteenth  of  August,  the  Baltimore  oriole  piped 
cheerily,  though  he  had  partly  doffed  his  splendid 
vernal  robes,  and  was  beginning  to  don  his  modest 
autumnal  garb.  The  cardinal  bird  fluted  frequently 
during  July  and  August,  and,  besides,  regaled  me 
with  a vocal  performance  on  the  third  of  September. 
The  last  record  I have  of  the  towhee  bunting’s 
trill  is  the  tenth  of  August;  but  before  that  date 
he  was  quite  lavish  of  his  music.  On  many  of 
my  tramps  to  the  woods  the  sad  minor  whistle  of 
the  black-capped  chickadee  pierced  the  solitudes, 
making  one  dream  of  one’s  boyhood  days,  — 

“ When  birds  and  flowers  and  I were  happy  peers,” 
as  Lowell  would  phrase  it. 


8 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


114 

One  of  my  surprises  was  a warbler’s  trill  on  the 
twelfth  of  August.  The  little  tantalizer  kept  itself 
so  far  up  in  the  trees  as  to  baffle  all  attempts  at 
identification,  but  I am  disposed  to  think  it  was  a 
cerulean  warbler.  On  the  nineteenth  of  August  two 
warbler  trills,  one  of  them,  I feel  almost  sure,  from 
the  throat  of  the  chestnut-sided  warbler,  were  heard, 
which  is  all  the  more  novel  because  these  birds  are 
not  residents,  but  only  migrants  in  this  latitude.  I 
should  have  felt  amply  repaid  for  all  my  efforts,  had 
I proved  nothing  more  than  that  warblers  will  some- 
times regale  one  with  an  aftermath  of  song  in  the 
dog  days. 

The  most  persistent  minstrel  of  the  midsummer 
orchestra  was  the  wood-pewee,  — the  only  bird 
whose  song  I heard  on  every  excursion  to  the  woods 
during  July  and  August ; and  even  when  September 
came,  there  seemed  to  be  little  abatement  in  his 
musical  industry.  All  the  year  round,  the  song- 
sparrow  is  the  most  prolific  lyrist  of  my  acquain- 
tance, but  in  midsummer  he  is  distanced  by  his 
sylvan  neighbor,  the  wood-pewee.  During  my  walks 
on  the  twenty-ninth  and  thirty-first  of  August 
the  pewee’s  was  the  only  song  heard. 

Then,  he  does  not  confine  himself  wholly  to 
his  ordinary  song,  Phe-e-w-e-e  or  Phe-e-e-o-r-e-e-e , 
for  one  day  in  July  he  twittered  a quaint  med- 
ley in  a low,  caressing  tone,  as  if  singing  a lullaby 
to  his  nestlings.  At  first  I could  not  tell  what 
bird  was  the  author  of  the  new  style  of  melody,  but 
presently  the  song  glided  sweetly  into  the  well-known 


MIDSUMMER  MELODIES.  1 15 

Pe-e-w-e-e . On  another  occasion  I was  charmed  by 
the  vocal  rehearsals  of  a young  pewee.  His  youth 
was  evident  from  the  fact  that  he  twinkled  his  wings 
and  coaxed  for  food  from  the  mother  bird,  who  re- 
warded his  vocal  efforts  by  feeding  him.  The  song 
was  extremely  beautiful,  spite  of  the  crudeness  of  its 
execution ; a clear  continuous  strain,  repeated  quite 
loudly,  with  here  and  there  a partially  successful  at- 
tempt to  emit  the  ordinary  pewee  notes.  Occasion- 
ally the  parent  bird  would  respond,  as  if  setting  the 
ambitious  novice  a musical  copy,  and  then  he  would 
make  a heroic  effort  to  pipe  the  notes  he  had  just 
heard,  and  several  times  he  succeeded  admirably. 
He  had  a voice  of  excellent  quality,  but  did  not 
have  it  under  perfect  control ; still,  the  immature 
song  was  so  innocent,  so  naive  and  striking,  that  it 
was  a temptation  to  wish  he  would  never  learn  to 
sing  otherwise. 

Permit  me  to  add,  in  conclusion,  that,  while  the 
birds  are  not  equally  musical  or  plentiful  all  the  year 
round,  yet  there  is  never  a time  when  their  behavior 
is  not  worth  careful  attention.  Moreover,  midsum- 
mer is  the  most  favorable  time  for  the  study  of  the 
quaint  behavior  and  varied  plumage  of  young  birds, 
— a theme  connected  with  our  avian  fauna  that 
merits  more  consideration  than  it  has  yet  received. 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


1 16 


X. 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST. 

NE  winter  evening  found  me  tramping  through 


a swamp  not  far  from  my  home,  listening 
to  the  dulcet  trills  of  the  song- sparrows,  which  had 
recently  returned  from  a brief  visit  to  a more  south- 
ern latitude.  There  was  no  snow  on  the  ground, 
and  the  day  had  been  pleasant ; but,  as  evening 
approached,  the  west  wind  blew  raw  across  the 
fields.  For  some  reason  which  I cannot  now  re- 
call, an  impulse  seized  me  to  clamber  over  the 
fence  into  the  adjacent  meadow,  where  I stalked 
about  somewhat  aimlessly  for  a minute  or  two,  little 
thinking  that  I was  on  the  eve  of  a discovery,  — one 
that  was  destined  to  lead  me  into  a delightful  field 
of  investigation. 

The  ground  was  rather  soggy,  but  a pair  of  tall 
rubber  boots  make  one  indifferent  to  mire  and 
mud.  The  dusk  was  now  gathering  rapidly,  and 
it  was  time  for  most  birds  to  go  to  bed.  I soon 
found,  too,  that  they  were  going  to  bed,  and,  more- 
over, were  taking  lodgings  in  the  most  unexpected 
quarters.  Imagine  my  surprise  when,  as  I trudged 
about,  the  little  tree-sparrows,  which  are  winter 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST. 


1 1 7 

residents  in  my  neighborhood,  flew  up  here  and 
there  out  of  the  deep  grass.  They  seemed  to  be 
hidden  somewhere  until  I came  near,  and  then  they 
would  suddenly  dart  up  as  if  they  had  emerged  from 
a hole  in  the  ground. 

This  unexpected  behavior  led  me  to  investigate ; 
and  I soon  found  that  in  many  places  there  were 
cosey  apartments  hollowed  out  under  the  long,  thick 
tufts  of  marsh  grass,  with  neat  entrances  at  one  side 
like  the  door  of  an  Eskimo  hut.  These  hollows 
gave  ample  evidence  of  having  been  occupied  by 
the  birds,  so  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
their  being  bird  bedrooms.  Very  frequently  they 
were  burrowed  in  the  sides  of  the  mounds  of  sod 
raised  by  the  winter  frosts,  and  were  thus  lifted 
above  the  intervening  hollows,  which  contained  ice- 
cold  water.  In  every  case  the  overhanging  grass 
made  a thatched  roof  to  carry  off  the  rain. 

I do  not  mean  to  say  that  these  little  dugouts 
were  made  by  the  birds  themselves.  Perhaps  they 
were,  but  it  is  more  probable  that  they  had  been 
scooped  out  the  previous  summer  by  field-mice,  and 
had  only  been  appropriated  for  sleeping-apartments 
by  the  sparrows.  However  that  may  be,  they  were 
exceedingly  cunning  and  cosey ; and  soft  must  have 
been  the  slumbers  of  the  feathered  occupants  while 
the  wintry  blasts  howled  unharming  above  them. 

Prior  to  that  discovery  I had  supposed,  with  most 
people,  that  all  birds  roost  in  trees  and  bushes. 
Later  researches  have  proved  how  wide  of  the  truth 
one’s  unverified  hypotheses  may  be.  A week  or  so 


1 18 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


afterward,  while  strolling  one  evening  at  dusk 
through  a favorite  timber-belt,  I noticed  the  snow- 
birds, or  juncos,  darting  up  from  the  leaves  and 
bushes  and  small  brush-heaps,  beneath  which  they 
had  found  dainty  little  coverts  from  the  storm.  In 
many  places  crooked  twigs  and  branches,  covered 
with  leaves,  lay  on  the  ground,  leaving  underneath 
small  spaces  overarched  and  sheltered,  and  into 
these  cosey  nooks  the  juncos  had  crept  for  the 
night.  No  enemies,  at  least  in  winter,  would  find 
them  there,  and  their  hiding-places  were  snug  and 
warm.  Long  after  dark  I lingered  in  the  woods, 
and  everywhere  startled  the  snow-birds  from  their 
leafy  couches.  At  one  place  a whole  colony  of 
them  had  taken  lodgings.  When  my  passing  fright- 
ened them  away,  they  flew  through  the  darkness 
into  the  neighboring  trees.  After  waiting  at  some 
distance  for  several  minutes,  I returned  to  the  spot, 
and  found  that  some  of  the  birds  had  gone  back 
to  their  bedrooms  on  the  ground. 

In  my  nocturnal  prowlings  through  the  fields  and 
lowlands,  I have  frequently  frightened  the  meadow- 
larks from  the  grass,  and  that  long  before  nest-build- 
ing or  incubation  had  begun.  Of  course,  they  were 
recognized  by  their  nervous  alarm-calls,  as  well  as  by 
the  peculiar  sound  of  their  fluttering  wings.  What 
surprises  me  beyond  measure  is  that  they  so  often 
select  low,  boggy  places  for  their  roosts,  instead  of 
the  dry  pleasant  upland  slopes.  But  there  is  no 
accounting  for  tastes  in  the  bird  world.  The  grass- 
finches  and  lark- sparrows,  like  their  relatives  just 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST . 1 19 

mentioned,  seek  little  hollows  in  the  ground  for 
bed-chambers,  usually  sheltered  by  grass  tufts. 

Long  before  day,  one  April  morning,  I made  my 
way  to  the  marsh  so  frequently  mentioned  in  this 
volume.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly  in  the 
southern  sky.  Early  as  it  was  — for  as  yet  there 
was  no  sign  of  daybreak  — the  silvery  trills  of  the 
song-sparrows  rose  from  the  bushes  like  a votive 
offering  to  the  Queen  of  Night.  From  one  part  of 
the  swamp  a sweet  song  would  ring  out  on  the 
moonlit  air,  and  would  at  once  be  taken  up  by  an- 
other songster  not  far  away.  Then  another  would 
chime  in,  and  another,  until  the  whole  enclosure 
was  filled  with  the  antiphonal  melody.  A silence 
would  then  fall  upon  the  marsh  like  a dream-spirit, 
to  be  broken  soon  by  another  outburst  of  min- 
strelsy ; and  thus  the  nocturne  continued  until  day 
broke,  and  it  merged  into  the  glad  matin  service. 

But  my  object  is  to  tell  about  bird  roosts  rather 
than  about  bird  music.  When  I reached  the 
farther  end  of  the  marsh,  several  sparrow  songs 
came  up  from  the  ground.  I walked  with  a ten- 
tative purpose  toward  a spot  whence  a song  came, 
when  the  little  triller  sprang  up  affrighted.  The 
same  experiment  with  a number  of  other  songsters 
brought  a like  result  in  each  case,  proving  beyond 
doubt,  I think,  that  at  least  some  of  the  song- 
sparrows  roost  on  the  ground,  and  begin  their 
matins  before  they  rise  from  their  couches,  so 
anxious  are  they  to  put  in  a full  day  of  song. 

On  the  same  morning  — it  was  still  before  day- 


120 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


break  — a bevy  of  red-winged  blackbirds,  which 
had  been  roosting  in  the  long  grass,  flew  up  with 
vociferous  cries  and  protests  at  the  rude  awakening 
I had  given  them,  just  when  they  were  enjoying 
their  morning  nap.  Blame  them  who  will  for 
making  loud  ado,  for  there  are  many  people  who 
would  do  the  same  under  similar  provocation. 
Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  many  birds  sleep  on  the 
ground.  My  investigations  lead  me  to  this  con- 
clusion : As  a rule,  those  birds  which  nest  on  or 
near  the  ground,  and  spend  a considerable  portion 
of  their  time  in  the  grass,  like  the  meadow-larks 
and  song-sparrows,  roost  on  the  ground,  while 
others  find  bushes  and  trees  more  to  their  taste. 
Still,  there  are  exceptions  to  this  rule  ; for  on  several 
occasions,  while  bent  on  my  nocturnal  prowlings, 
I have  driven  the  turtle-dove  from  the  ground, 
although  this  bird  usually  roosts  in  the  thorn-trees 
and  willows.1 

The  robins  choose  thick  trees  and  even  wild  rose- 
bushes for  roosts.  In  the  apple-trees  and  pines  of 
a neighbor’s  yard  across  the  fields  these  birds  find 
sleeping- apartments  early  in  the  spring,  before 
nest-building  is  begun,  for  a perfect  deluge  of 
robin  music  often  pours  from  that  locality,  both 
morning  and  evening. 

The  white-throats,  wood-sparrows,  and  brown 
thrashers  make  use  of  the  thick  thorn-trees  of  the 
marsh  for  lodgings.  They  flutter  about  in  sore 

1 This  is,  after  all,  no  exception,  for  I have  since  found  a 
number  of  turtle-doves’  nests  on  the  ground. 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST . 


I 2 I 


dismay  as  I approach,  until  I start  back,  lest  they 
should  impale  themselves  on  the  sharp  thorns. 
Sometimes  the  thrasher  ensconces  himself  for  the 
night  in  the  brush-heaps  which  the  wood-choppers 
have  made  on  the  slopes,  making  his  presence 
known  by  his  peculiar  way  of  scolding  at  my  offi- 
cious intrusion. 

One  cannot  help  admiring  the  wise  forethought 
displayed  by  many  birds  in  creeping  into  the  thick 
thorn-bushes  at  night,  where  they  may  sleep  without 
fear  of  attack  from  their  nocturnal  foe,  the  owl. 
Full  well  they  seem  to  know  he  cannot  force  his 
bulky  form  through  the  thick  network  of  branch 
and  thorn.  How  he  must  gnash  his  teeth  with 
rage  — if  owls  ever  do  that  — when  he  espies  his 
coveted  prey  sleeping  peacefully  just  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  talons  ! Still,  it  sometimes  happens 
that  even  a small  bird  ventures  into  too  close 
quarters  in  these  terrible  prickly  bushes ; for  I once 
found  a dead  sparrow  completely  wedged  in  among 
the  fierce  thorns,  where  it  had  evidently  been 
caught  in  such  a way  as  to  prevent  its  escape. 

Something  over  a year  after  the  preceding  facts 
were  published,  I was  seized  with  a whim  to  re- 
sume my  investigations  on  bird  roosts.  One  of  my 
nocturnal  rambles  seems  to  be  deserving  of  some- 
what minute  description.  It  was  a delightful 
evening  of  early  spring,  with  a warm  westerly 
breeze  stirring  the  bursting  leaves.  The  sun  had 
set,  and  the  dusk  was  falling  over  fields  and  woods. 
The  bright  moon,  a little  more  than  half  full. 


122 


IN  BIRD  LAND, 


lengthened  out  the  gloaming  and  added  many 
precious  minutes  to  the  singing  hours  of  the  birds. 
Such  a woodland  chorus  as  I was  permitted  to 
listen  to  that  evening  ! It  was  a rare  privilege. 
How  the  wood-thrushes  vied  with  the  towhee 
buntings  ! Which  would  sing  the  latest  ? That 
seemed  to  be  the  question.  At  length  there  were 
several  moments  of  silence,  and  I supposed  all  the 
birds  had  gone  to  sleep,  when  a white-throated 
sparrow  and  a wood-pewee  struck  in  with  their 
sweet  strains ; and  so  the  chorus  continued  until 
it  was  really  night.  The  wood- thrushes,  I think, 
got  in  the  last  note  of  the  twilight  serenade. 

Before  it  had  become  quite  dark,  I espied  a 
wood-thrush  sitting  in  the  fork  of  a dogwood-tree, 
looking  at  me  in  a startled  way ; but  she  did  not 
fly.  I walked  off  some  distance,  remained  awhile, 
and  then  returned,  to  find  her  still  in  her  place. 
Then  I strolled  about  until  night  had  fully  come ; 
the  moon  shone  brightly,  so  that  it  was  not  dark. 
When  I went  back  to  the  dogwood-tree,  the 
speckled  breast  of  the  thrush  was  still  visible  in 
the  fork  which  she  had  chosen  for  her  bed-chamber, 
and  I wished  her  pleasant  dreams. 

While  stalking  about,  I startled  another  wood- 
thrush,  which  had  selected  a loose  brush-heap  on 
the  ground  instead  of  a sapling  or  tree  for  a roost. 
The  indigo -birds  and  bush- sparrows  flew  up  from 
the  blackberry  bushes  as  I pushed  my  way  through 
them.  Several  times  the  towhee  buntings  leaped 
scolding  out  of  bed,  having  selected  brush-heaps, 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST. 


123 


or  dead  branches  lying  on  the  ground,  for  roost- 
ing-places. 

A discovery  was  also  made  in  regard  to  the 
sleeping-apartments  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker. 
As  the  dusk  was  gathering,  a red- head  dashed  in  front 
of  me  into  the  border  of  the  woods,  alighting  on 
a sapling  stem,  and  then  began  to  shuffle  upward 
toward  a hole  plainly  visible  from  where  I sat ; but 
just  as  he  reached  the  hole,  another  red-head 
appeared  with  a challenging  air  on  the  inside  of 
the  cavity,  and  red-head  number  one  darted  away 
with  a cry  of  alarm.  Now  was  my  time  to  discover, 
if  possible,  where  red- head  number  two  would  roost. 
So  I kept  a close  watch  on  the  cavity,  waiting  about, 
as  previously  said,  until  nightfall,  and  then,  keeping 
my  eye  on  the  hole,  so  that  the  bird  could  not  fly 
out  without  being  seen,  I made  my  way  to  the  sap- 
ling. Intently  watching  the  hole  with  my  glass,  I 
tapped  the  stem  of  the  tree  with  my  heel,  when,  in 
the  moonlight,  a red  head  and  long,  black  beak 
were  protruded  from  the  opening  above.  The  wood- 
pecker was  within,  that  much  was  proved  ; and  when 
I had  beaten  against  the  tree,  he  had  sprung  up  to 
the  orifice  to  see  who  was  thus  impolitely  disturbing 
his  evening  slumbers.  He  turned  his  head  sidewise, 
and  looked  down  at  me  with  his  keen  beady  eyes ; 
but  although  I tapped  against  the  tree  again  and 
again,  he  would  not  leave  the  cavity.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  it  was  his  bedroom,  — that  cosey  apart- 
ment in  the  sapling,  — for  it  was  still  too  early  in 
the  season  for  the  bird  to  begin  nesting,  as  he  had 


124 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


arrived  only  two  or  three  days  before  from  his  winter 
residence  in  the  south.  Very  likely  most  wood- 
peckers roost  in  the  cavities  which  they  hew  in  trees, 
for  I do  not  see  why  the  one  into  whose  private 
affairs  I pried  that  evening  should  have  been  an 
exception.  He  most  probably  was  only  following 
the  customs  of  his  tribe  from  time  immemorial.1 

A number  of  experiments  made  with  young  birds 
purloined  from  the  nest  — I must  beg  the  feathered 
parents'  forgiveness  — have  added  several  interesting 
facts  to  the  subject  in  hand.  One  spring  I became 
guardian,  purveyor,  and  man-of-all-work  to  a pair  of 
young  flickers,  taken  from  a cavity  in  an  old  apple- 
tree.  They  were  kept  in  a large  cage,  in  which  I 
placed  sapling  boughs  of  considerable  size.  They 
had  not  become  my  proteges  many  days  before  they 
insisted  on  converting  these  upright  branches  into 
sleeping-couches,  clinging  to  the  vertical  boles  with 
their  stout  claws,  and  pillowing  their  heads  in  the 
feathers  of  their  backs.  In  this  position  they  slept 
as  comfortably  as  the  thrushes  and  orioles  confined 
in  other  cages  slept  on  their  horizontal  perches,  or, 
for  that  matter,  as  I slept  in  my  own  bed.  They 

1 The  reader  will  see,  from  the  facts  given  in  the  remainder 
of  the  chapter,  that  I reckoned  without  my  host  in  supposing 
that  woodpeckers  usually  sleep  in  cavities  of  trees.  That  they 
sometimes  select  such  places  for  roosts  cannot  be  doubted; 
but  that  such  is  always  or  even  generally  their  habit  the  ex- 
periments described  farther  on  conclusively  disprove.  It  is 
only  fair  to  say  that  the  rest  of  the  chapter  was  added  long 
after  the  foregoing  had  been  written,  and  proves  how  unsafe 
it  is  for  the  naturalist  to  make  generalizations. 


WHERE  BIRDS  ROOST.  125 

even  slept  on  the  under  side  of  an  oblique  branch. 
One  of  them  passed  one  night  on  a horizontal  perch, 
although  apparently  his  slumbers  were  not  quite  so 
sound  and  refreshing  as  they  would  have  been  had 
he  roosted  in  the  wonted  upright  position.  Queerest 
of  all,  these  woodpeckers  sometimes  selected  the 
side  of  the  cage  itself  for  a roosting-place,  thrusting 
their  claws  into  the  crevice  between  the  door  and 
its  frame.  Wherever  they  roosted,  their  tails  were 
made  to  do  duty  as  braces,  by  being  pressed  tightly 
against  the  wall  to  which  they  clung.  A pair  of 
young  red-headed  woodpeckers  behaved  in  much 
the  same  way,  always  preferring  to  sleep  on  an 
upright  perch. 

During  the  spring  of  1893  I placed  in  a cage  the 
following  birds,  all  taken  while  in  a half-callow  state, 
from  the  nest : Two  cat-birds,  one  red-winged  black- 
bird, one  cow-bunting,  and  two  meadow-larks.  In 
a few  days  all  of  them  proclaimed  their  species,  as 
well  as  the  inexorable  law  of  heredity,  by  selecting 
such  roosts  as  were  best  adapted  to  them,  and  that 
without  any  instruction  whatever  from  adult  birds. 
The  meadow-larks  almost  invariably  squatted  on  the 
grass  with  which  the  floor  of  the  cage  was  lined, 
usually  scratching  and  waddling  from  side  to  side 
until  they  had  made  cosey  hollows  to  fit  their  bodies  ; 
while  the  remaining  inmates  flew  up  to  the  perches 
when  bed-time  came. 

It  was  quite  interesting  to  look  in  upon  my  group 
of  sleeping  pets  of  an  evening,  part  of  them  roosting 
in  the  lower  story  of  the  cage  and  the  rest  in  the 


126 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


upper  story.  Several  times,  however,  one  of  the  larks 
slept  on  a perch,  and  the  red-wing,  after  the  cat-birds 
and  bunting  had  been  removed  from  the  cage,  occa- 
sionally seemed  to  think  the  upstairs  a little  lonely, 
and  so  he  cuddled  down  on  the  grass  below,  edging 
up  close  to  the  larks.  The  strangely  assorted  bed- 
fellows slept  together  in  this  way  like  happy 
children. 


THE  WOOD-PE  WEE. 


127 


XI. 


THE  WOOD-PEWEE. 


A MONOGRAPH. 


LMOST  every  person  living  in  the  country  or 


the  suburbs  of  a town  is  familiar  with  the 
house-pewee,  or  phcebe-bird.  It  is  usually  looked 
upon  as  the  sure  harbinger  of  spring.  In  my  boy- 
hood days  my  parents  and  grandparents  were  wont 
to  say,  “ Spring  is  here ; the  phoebe  is  singing.” 
And  if  blithesomeness  of  tone  and  good  cheer  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  advent  of  the  season  of 
song  and  bursting  blossoms,  the  pewit,  as  he  is 
often  called,  must  be  a true  herald  and  prophet. 
He  seems  to  carry  the  “ subtle  essence  of  spring” 
in  his  tuneful  larynx,  and  in  the  graceful  sweep  of 
his  flight  as  he  pounces  upon  an  insect.  It  is  quite 
easy  to  make  the  transition  from  his  familiar  song  of 
Phe-e-by  to  the  exclamation,  Spring  's  here ! by  a 
little  stretch  of  the  fancy. 

But  the  phoebe  has  a woodland  relative,  a first 
cousin,  with  which  most  persons  are  not  so  well 
acquainted,  because  he  is  more  retiring  in  his  habits, 
and  seeks  out-of  the-way  places  for  his  habitat.  I 
refer  to  the  wood-pewee.  If  your  eyes  and  ears  are 
not  so  sharp  as  they  should  be,  you  may  get  these 


128 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


two  birds  confounded ; yet  there  is  no  need  of 
making  such  a blunder.  The  woodland  bird  is 
smaller,  slenderer,  and  of  a darker  cast  than  his 
relative ; and,  besides,  there  is  a marked  difference 
in  the  musical  performances  of  these  birds.  The 
song  of  the  phcebe  is  sprightly  and  cheerful,  and 
the  syllables  are  uttered  rather  quickly,  while  the 
whistle  of  the  wood-pewee  is  softer  and  more  plain- 
tive, and  is  repeated  with  less  emphasis  and  more 
deliberation.  There  is,  indeed,  something  inex- 
pressibly sad  and  dreamy  about  the  strain  of  the 
wood-pewee,  especially  if  heard  at  a distance  in  the 
“ emerald  twilight”  of  the  “ woodland  privacies.” 
Mr.  Lowell  seldom  erred  in  his  attempts  to  charac- 
terize the  songs  and  habits  of  the  birds,  but  in  his 
exquisite  poem  entitled  “ Phcebe  ” he  certainly 
must  have  referred  to  the  wood-pewee  and  not  to 
the  phoebe-bird,  as  his  description  applies  to  the 
former  but  not  to  the  latter.  He  calls  this  bird 
“ the  loneliest  of  its  kind,”  while  the  pewit  is  a 
familiar  species  about  many  a country  home.  Tak- 
ing it  for  granted  that  he  meant  the  wood-pewee, 
how  happy  is  his  description ! 

“ It  is  a wee  sad-colored  thing, 

As  shy  and  secret  as  a maid, 

That  ere  in  choir  the  robins  ring, 

Pipes  its  own  name  like  one  afraid. 

“ It  seems  pain-prompted  to  repeat 
The  story  of  some  ancient  ill, 

But  Phcebe  l Phcebe l sadly  sweet, 

Is  all  it  says,  and  then  is  still. 


THE  WOOD-PEWEE. 


129 


“ Phcebel  it  calls  and  calls  again  ; 

And  Ovid,  could  he  but  have  heard. 

Had  hung  a legendary  pain 
About  the  memory  of  the  bird. 

“ PJuzbe  / is  all  it  has  to  say 

In  plaintive  cadence  o’er  and  o’er, 

Like  children  who  have  lost  their  way, 

And  know  their  names,  but  nothing  more.” 

This  poetical  tribute  is  certainly  very  graceful, 
and  would  be  true  to  life  if  the  phonetic  represen- 
tation were  a little  more  accurate.  Instead  of 
Phcebe , imagine  the  song  to  be  Pe-e-w-e-e-e  or  Phe- 
e-w-e-e-e , and  you  will  gain  a clear  idea  of  the  min- 
strelsy of  this  songster  of  the  wild  wood.  However, 
he  frequently  varies  his  tune,  — to  prevent  its 
becoming  monotonous,  I opine.  He  sometimes 
closes  his  refrain  with  the  falling  inflection  or  cir- 
cumflex, and  sometimes  with  the  rising,  as  the  mood 
prompts  him.  In  the  former  case  the  first  syllable 
receives  the  greater  emphasis  and  is  the  more  pro- 
longed, and  in  the  latter  this  order  is  precisely 
reversed.  When  the  last  syllable  is  uttered  with  the 
rising  circumflex,  it  is  usually,  if  not  always,  cut  off 
somewhat  abruptly.  Moreover,  this  minstrel  often 
runs  the  two  syllables  of  his  song  together,  — a pecu- 
liarity that  I have  represented  in  my  notes,  taken 
while  listening  to  the  song,  in  this  way : Phe-e-e-o- 
o-w-e-e-e  / There  is  a characteristic  swing  about 
the  melody  that  refuses  to  be  caught  in  the  mesh 
of  letters  and  syllables. 

In  some  of  the  pewee’s  vocal  efforts  he  does  not 
9 


i3° 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


get  farther  than  the  end  of  the  first  syllable.  The 
song  seems  to  be  cut  off  short,  as  if  the  notes  had 
stuck  fast  in  the  singer’s  throat,  or  as  if  something 
had  occurred  to  divert  his  mind  from  the  song. 
Perhaps  this  hiatus  is  caused  by  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  an  insect  glancing  by,  which  attracts  the 
musician’s  attention.  This  bird  usually  chooses  a 
dead  twig  or  limb  in  the  woods  as  a perch,  on  which 
he  sits  and  sings,  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side, 
so  that  no  flitting  moth  may  escape  him. 

And  what  a persistent  singer  he  is  ! He  sings 
not  only  in  the  spring  when  other  vocalists  are  in 
full  tune,  but  also  all  summer  long,  never  growing 
disheartened,  even  when  the  mercury  rises  far  up 
into  the  nineties.  What  a pleasant  companion  he 
has  been  in  my  midsummer  strolls  as  I have  wearily 
patrolled  the  woods  ! On  the  sultriest  August  days, 
when  all  other  birds  were  glad  to  keep  mute,  sitting 
on  their  shady  perches  with  open  mandibles  and 
drooping  wings,  the  dreamful,  far-away  strain  of 
the  wood-pewee  has  drifted,  a welcome  sound,  to 
my  ears  through  the  dim  aisles.  He  seems  to  be  a 
friend  in  need.  How  often,  when  the  heat  has 
almost  overcome  me,  as  I pursued  my  daily  beat, 
that  song  has  put  new  vigor  into  my  veins  ! When 
Mr.  Lowell  wrote  that 

“The  phcebe  scarce  whistles 
Once  an  hour  to  his  fellow,” 

he  must  have  been  listening  to  a far  lazier  specimen 
than  those  with  which  I am  acquainted. 


THE  WOOD-PEWEE . 


Most  birds  fall  occasionally  into  a kind  of  ecstasy 
of  song,  and  the  wood-pewee  is  no  exception.  One 
evening,  after  it  had  grown  almost  dark,  a pewee 
flew  out  into  the  air  directly  above  my  head  from 
a tree  by  the  wayside,  and  began  to  sing  in  a per- 
fect transport  as  he  wheeled  about ; then  he  swung 
back  into  the  tree,  keeping  up  his  song  in  a con- 
tinuous strain,  and  in  sweet,  half- caressing  tones, 
until  finally  it  died  away,  as  if  the  bird  had  fallen 
into  a doze  during  his  vocal  recital.  I lingered 
about  for  some  time,  but  he  did  not  sing  again. 
Why  should  he  repeat  his  good-night  song? 

I have  frequently  heard  young  pewees  in  mid- 
summer singing  in  a continuous  way,  instead  of 
whistling  the  intermittent  song  of  their  elders.  It 
sounds  very  droll,  giving  you  the  impression  that 
the  little  neophyte  has  begun  to  turn  the  crank  of 
his  music-box  and  can’t  stop.  His  voice  is  quite 
sweet,  but  his  execution  is  very  crude.  Wait, 
however,  until  he  is  eight  or  nine  months  older, 
and  he  will  show  you  what  a winged  Orpheus  can 
do.  My  notes  say  that  on  the  thirtieth  of  July, 
1891,  I heard  a “ pewee’s  quaint,  prolonged  whistle, 
interlarded  with  his  ordinary  notes.”  Thus  it  will 
be  seen  that  he  is  a somewhat  versatile  songster, 
proving  the  poet’s  lines  half  true  and  half  untrue  : — 

“ The  birds  but  repeat  without  ending 
The  same  old  traditional  notes, 

Which  some,  by  more  happily  blending, 

Seem  to  make  over  new  in  their  throats.” 


132 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


Younger  readers  may,  perhaps,  need  to  be  in- 
formed that  the  wood-pewee  belongs  to  the  family 
of  flycatchers,  as  do  also  the  king-bird  or  bee- 
martin,  the  phoebe-bird,  the  great-crested  fly- 
catcher, and  a number  of  other  interesting  species, 
all  of  which  have  a peculiar  way  of  taking  their 
prey.  The  pewee  will  sit  almost  motionless  on  a 
twig,  lisping  his  plaintive  tune  at  intervals,  until  a 
luckless  insect  comes  buzzing  near,  all  unconscious 
of  its  peril,  when  the  bird  will  make  a quick  dash 
at  it,  seize  it  dexterously  between  his  mandibles, 
and  then  circle  around  gracefully  to  the  same  or 
another  perch,  having  made  a splendid  “ catch  on 
the  fly.”  If  the  quarry  he  has  taken  is  small,  it 
slips  at  once  down  his  throat;  but  should  it  be 
too  large  to  be  disposed  of  in  that  summary  way, 
he  will  beat  it  into  an  edible  form  upon  a limb 
before  gulping  it  down.  Agile  as  he  is,  he  some- 
times misses  his  aim,  being  compelled  to  make  a 
second,  and  occasionally  even  a third  attempt  to 
secure  his  prize.  I have  witnessed  more  than  one 
comedy  which  turned  out  to  be  a tragedy  for  the 
ill-starred  insect.  Sometimes  the  insect  will  resort 
to  the  ruse  of  dropping  toward  the  ground  when  it 
sees  the  bird  darting  toward  it,  and  then  a scuffle 
ensues  that  is  really  laughable,  the  pursuer  whirl- 
ing, tumbling,  almost  turning  somersault  in  his 
desperate  efforts  to  capture  his  prize.  Once  an 
insect  flew  between  me  and  a pewee  perched  on  a 
twig,  when  the  bird  darted  down  toward  me  with 
a directness  of  aim  that  made  me  think  for  a 


* THE  WOOD-PEWEE.  133 

moment  he  would  fly  right  into  my  face ; but  he 
made  a dexterous  turn  in  time,  caught  his  quarry, 
and  swung  to  a bough  near  by.  If  one  were  dis- 
posed to  be  speculative,  one  might  well  raise 
Sidney  Lanier’s  pregnant  inquiry  at  this  point, 
the  reference  being  to  the  southern  mocking-bird, 
and  not  to  our  pewee, — 

“ How  may  the  death  of  that  dull  insect  be 
The  life  of  yon  trim  Shakspeare,  on  the  tree  ? 99 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  find  one,  but 
only  one,  nest  of  this  bird.  It  was  placed  on  a 
horizontal  branch  about  fifteen  feet  above  the 
ground,  and  was  a neat,  compact  structure,  deco- 
rated on  the  outside  with  grayish  lichens  and  moss, 
giving  it  the  appearance  of  an  excrescence  on  the 
limb.1  It  is  said  by  those  who  have  closely  exam- 
ined the  nests,  that  they  are  handsomely  built  and 
ornamented,  and  are  equalled  only  by  the  dainty 
houses  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  blue-gray 
gnat-catcher.  The  eggs,  usually  four  in  number, 
are  of  a creamy  white  hue,  beautifully  embellished 
with  a wreath  of  lavender  and  purplish-brown 
around  the  larger  end  or  near  the  centre. 

Though  our  bird  prefers  solitary  places  for  his 
home,  he  is  far  from  shy,  if  you  call  on  him  in  his 
haunt  in  the  wildwood.  He  will  sit  fearless  on 
his  perch,  even  if  you  come  quite  near,  looking  at 

1 Since  this  was  written,  I have  found  several  more  nests, 
and  have  even  watched  the  skilful  architects  at  their  house- 
building. 


134 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


you  in  his  staid,  philosophical  way,  as  if  you  were 
scarcely  worth  noticing.  Nor  will  he  hush  his  song 
at  your  approach,  although  he  does  not  seem  to 
care  whether  you  listen  to  him  or  not.  It  is 
seldom  that  he  can  be  betrayed  into  doing  an 
undignified  act ; and  even  if  he  does  almost  turn  a 
somersault  in  pursuing  a refractory  miller,  he  re- 
covers his  poise  the  next  moment,  and  settles  upon 
his  perch  with  as  much  sang  froid  as  if  nothing 
unusual  had  occurred.  Altogether,  the  wood-pewee 
is  what  Bradford  Torrey  would  call  a “ character  in 
feathers.” 


A PAIR  OF  NIGHT-HAWKS . 


*35 


XII 


A PAIR  OF  NIGHT-HAWKS. 

HE  night-hawk  and  the  whippoorwill  are  often 


confounded  by  persons  of  inaccurate  habits  of 
observation.  It  is  true,  both  birds  are  members  of 
the  goatsucker  family;  but  they  belong  to  entirely 
different  genera,  and  are  therefore  of  much  more 
distant  kin  than  many  people  suppose.  The  whip- 
poorwill is  a forest  bird,  while  the  night-hawk  pre- 
fers the  open  country.  Besides,  the  whippoorwill 
is  decidedly  nocturnal  in  his  habits,  making  the 
woods  ring  at  night,  as  every  one  knows,  with  his 
weird,  flutelike  melody ; whereas  the  night-hawk  is 
a bird  of  the  day  and  evening.  Then,  a peculiar 
mark  of  the  night-hawk  is  the  round  white  spot  on 
his  wings,  visible  on  the  under  surface  as  he  per- 
forms his  wonderful  feats  overhead,  — a mark  that 
does  not  distinguish  his  woodland  relative. 

As  a rule,  the  gloaming  is  the  favorite  time  for  the 
night-hawk’s  wing-exercises ; then  he  may  be  seen 
whirling,  curveting,  mounting,  and  plunging,  often  at 
a dizzy  height,  gathering  his  supper  of  insects  as  he 
flies ; but  his  petulant  call  is  often  heard  at  other 
hours  of  the  day,  perhaps  at  noon  when  the  sun  is 
shining  with  fierce  warmth.  Even  during  a shower 


1 36 


IN  BIRD-LAND. 


he  seems  to  be  fond  of  haunting  the  cloudy  canopy, 
toying  with  the  wind. 

His  call,  as  he  tilts  overhead,  is  difficult  to  repre- 
sent phonetically,  both  the  vowels  and  consonants 
being  provokingly  elusive  and  hard  to  catch.  To 
me  he  seems  usually  to  say  Spe-ah.  Sometimes  the  S 
appears  to  be  omitted,  or  is  enunciated  very  slightly, 
while  at  other  times  his  call  seems  to  have  a de- 
cidedly sibilant  beginning.  On  several  occasions  he 
seemed  to  pronounce  the  syllable  Scape . 

I had  often  watched  the  marvellous  flight  of  these 
birds,  as  they  passed  like  living  silhouettes  across 
the  sky;  but  they  had  always  seemed  so  shy  and 
unapproachable  that,  prior  to  the  summer  of  1891, 
I had  despaired  of  ever  finding  a night-hawk’s  nest. 
However,  one  evening  in  June,  while  stalking  about 
in  the  marsh,  I suddenly  became  aware  of  a large 
bird  fluttering  uneasily  about  me  in  the  gathering 
darkness.  Presently  it  was  joined  by  its  mate,  and 
then  the  two  birds  circled  and  hovered  about, 
often  coming  into  uncomfortable  proximity  with  my 
head,  and  muttering  under  their  breath,  Chuckle  / 
chuckle  ! Several  times  one  of  them  alighted  for  a 
few  moments  on  the  rail-fence  near  by,  and  then 
resumed  its  circular  flight.  Even  in  the  darkness  I 
recognized  that  my  uncanny  companions  were  night- 
hawks,  and  felt  convinced  that  there  must  be  a nest 
in  the  neighborhood,  or  they  would  not  display  so 
much  anxiety.  It  was  too  late  to  discover  their 
secret  that  evening,  and,  besides,  I really  felt  a slight 
chill  creeping  up  my  back,  with  those  dark,  ghostly 


A PAIR  OF  NIGHT-HAWKS . 137 

forms  wheeling  about  my  head,  and  so  I went 
reluctantly  home. 

Two  days  later  I found  time  to  visit  the  marsh. 
On  reaching  the  spot  where  the  two  birds  had 
been  seen,  presto  ! a dark  feathered  form  started 
up  before  me  from  the  ground.  It  was  the  female 
night-hawk ; and  there  on  the  damp  earth,  without 
the  least  trace  of  a nest  or  a covering  of  any  kind, 
lay  two  eggs.  At  last  I had  found  a night-hawk’s 
nest ! The  ground-color  of  the  eggs,  which  were 
quite  large,  was  of  a dirty  bluish -gray  cast,  mottled 
and  clouded  with  darker  gray  and  brown. 

The  behavior  of  the  mother  bird  was  curious. 
She  had  fluttered  away  a few  rods,  pretending  to 
be  hurt,  and  then  dropped  into  the  grass.  On  my 
driving  her  from  her  hiding-place,  she  rose  in  the  air 
and  began  to  hover  about  above  my  head,  and  then, 
to  my  utter  surprise,  she  swooped  down  toward  me 
savagely,  as  if  she  really  had  a mind  to  attack  me. 
As  I walked  away,  she  seemed  to  grow  angrier  and 
bolder,  making  a swift  dash  at  me  every  few  minutes, 
and  actually  coming  so  near  my  head  as  to  cause 
me  involuntarily  to  raise  my  cane  in  self-defence. 
A quaver  of  uneasiness  went  through  me.  I really 
believe  she  would  have  struck  me  had  I given  her 
sufficient  provocation.  There  was  a brisk  shower 
falling  at  the  time,  and  so,  fearing  the  eggs  might 
become  addled,  I hurried  to  the  remote  end  of  the 
marsh.  Suddenly  my  feathered  pursuer  disappeared. 
Wondering  if  she  had  resumed  her  place  on  the 
nest,  I sauntered  back  to  settle  the  doubt,  but  pres* 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


138 

ently  espied  her  sitting  lengthwise  on  a top  rail  of 
the  fence,  while  her  eggs  lay  unprotected  in  the  rain. 
Her  dark,  mottled  form  and  sleepy,  half-closed  eyes 
made  a quaint  picture.  I slowly  withdrew,  and  as 
long  as  I could  see  her  with  my  glass,  she  kept  her 
perch  on  the  rail  without  moving  a pinion. 

On  the  twenty-third  of  June  another  call  was  made 
on  the  night-hawk  family,  when  I found  two  odd- 
looking bairns  in  the  nest,  if  nest  it  could  be  called. 
They  were  covered  with  soft  down,  the  black  and 
white  of  which  presented  a wavy  appearance.  Their 
short,  thick  bills  were  covered  with  a speckled  fuzz, 
except  the  tips.  I stooped  down  and  smoothed 
their  downy  backs  with  my  hand,  but  there  was  no 
expression  of  fear  in  their  sluggish  eyes. 

Both  parents  were  present  on  the  twenty-sixth  of 
June.  For  a while  the  male  bird  pursued  his  mate 
savagely  through  the  air,  as  if  venting  on  her  his 
anger  at  my  intrusion,  and  then,  mounting  far  up 
toward  the  sky  and  poising  a moment,  he  plunged 
toward  the  earth  with  a velocity  that  made  my  head 
dizzy,  checking  himself,  as  is  his  wont,  with  a loud 
resounding  Bo-o-m-m . The  female  again  pursued 
her  unwelcome  visitor,  swooping  so  near  my  head 
two  or  three  times  that  I could  have  reached  her 
with  my  cane.  The  cock  bird,  curiously  enough, 
never  displayed  so  much  courage,  but  kept  at  a 
safe  distance. 

On  the  twenty-ninth  the  young  birds  had  been 
moved  about  a half  rod  from  the  original  site  of  the 
nest,  and  hopped  off  awkwardly  into  the  grass  when 


A PAIR  OF  NIGHT-HAWKS . 


13  9 


I tried  to  clasp  them  with  my  hand.  The  benedict 
was  absent  this  time,  and  was  never  seen  on  any  of 
my  subsequent  visits  while  the  young  birds  were 
fledging.  By  the  first  of  July  the  bantlings  hopped 
about  in  a lively  manner  at  my  approach  to  their 
domicile,  and  wheezed  in  a frightened  way,  spread- 
ing out  their  mottled  pinions.  On  the  seventh  of 
July  neither  of  the  parents  was  to  be  seen,  and  the 
youngsters  sat  so  cosily  side  by  side  on  the  ground 
that  I had  not  the  heart  to  disturb  their  slumbers. 
Approaching  cautiously  on  the  tenth,  I almost 
stepped  on  the  mother  bird  before  she  flew  up.  At 
the  same  moment  both  young  birds  started  from  the 
ground,  and  fluttered  away  in  different  directions  on 
their  untried  wings,  their  flight  being  awkward  and 
labored.  A few  weeks  later  four  night-hawks  were 
circling  about  above  the  marsh,  — no  doubt  the 
family  that  had  been  affording  me  such  an  interesting 
study.  What  was  my  surprise  when  one  of  them 
resented  my  presence  by  swooping  down  toward  me, 
as  the  female  had  done  a few  weeks  before  ! 

Reference  has  already  been  made  incidentally  to 
the  night-hawk’s  curious  habit  of  “ booming,”  as  it  is 
called.  This  sound  is  always  produced  as  he  plunges 
in  an  almost  perpendicular  course  from  a dizzy  height, 
— or,  more  correctly,  at  the  end  of  that  headlong 
plunge,  just  as  he  sweeps  around  in  a graceful 
curve.  There  is  something  almost  sepulchral  about 
the  reverberating  sound.  How  it  is  produced  is  a 
problem  over  which  there  has  been  no  small  amount 
of  discussion  in  ornithological  circles.  But  after 


140 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


considerable  study  of  this  queer  performance,  I am 
persuaded  that  it  is  a vocal  outburst,  produced 
either  for  its  musical  effect  (though  it  is  far  from 
musical),  or  else  to  give  vent  to  the  bird’s  exuber- 
ance of  feeling  as  he  makes  his  swift  descent. 

His  thick,  curved  bill  seems  admirably  adapted 
to  produce  this  sound,  as  do  also  his  arched  throat 
and  neck.  It  has  seemed  to  me,  too,  that  his 
mandibles  fly  open  at  the  moment  the  boom  is 
heard,  although  I cannot  be  sure  such  is  the  case. 
Besides,  the  peculiar  chuckle , previously  referred  to, 
had  about  it  a quality  of  sound  suggestive  of  kin- 
ship with  the  bird’s  resounding  boom.  The  hollow, 
wheezy  alarm-call  of  the  young  birds,  heard  on 
several  of  my  visits  to  the  nest  in  the  marsh,  cor- 
roborates this  theory.  But  there  is  still  further  proof 
that  this  hypothesis  is  correct.  The  night-hawk 
often  makes  his  headlong  plunge  without  booming  at 
all,  but  merely  utters  his  ordinary  rasping,  aerial  call, 
which  has  been  translated  by  the  syllable  Spe-ah . 
Then  he  sometimes  combines  the  two  calls,  and  on 
such  occasions  both  of  the  sounds  are  uttered  with 
a diminished  loudness,  as  one  would  expect  if  both 
are  vocal  performances,  but  as  one  would  not  expect 
if  the  booming  were  made  by  the  concussion  of  the 
bird’s  wings  with  the  resisting  air,  as  some  orni- 
thologists suppose.  The  female  sometimes  booms, 
but  her  voice  obviously  lacks  the  strong,  resounding 
quality  that  characterizes  the  voice  of  her  liege  lord. 


A BIRDS'  GALA-DAY . 


14 1 


XIII. 

A BIRDS’  GALA-DAY. 

IN  Mr.  Emerson’s  poem  entitled  “ May  Morning  ” 
this  stanza  occurs  : — 

“ When  the  purple  flame  shoots  up, 

And  Love  ascends  the  throne, 

I cannot  hear  your  songs,  O birds, 

For  the  witchery  of  my  own.” 

It  would  seem,  therefore,  that  to  be  a poet  does 
not  always  give  one  the  coign  of  vantage  in  observ- 
ing Nature,  but  may,  on  the  contrary,  prove  a 
positive  disadvantage.  Should  the  rambler  go  about 
“ crooning  rhymes  ” and  making  an  over- sweet 
melody  to  himself,  instead  of  keeping  his  ear  alert 
to  the  music  around  him,  he  would  be  likely  to  miss 
many  a wild,  sweet  song  fully  as  enchanting  as  his 
own  measured  lines.  No  music  of  my  own,  how- 
ever, diverted  my  mind  from  Nature’s  blithe  min- 
strels as,  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  April,  1892,  I 
pursued  my  avian  studies  in  some  of  my  favorite 
resorts. 

It  was  nine  o’clock  when  I reached  the  quiet 
woodland  lying  beyond  a couple  of  fields.  The 
first  fact  noted  was  the  return  of  a number  of 
interesting  migrants  which  had  not  been  present 


142 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


on  the  preceding  day.  They  had,  as  is  their  wont, 
come  by  night  from  some  more  southern  rendezvous. 
Among  them  was  the  oven-bird  or  accentor,  an- 
nouncing his  presence  with  his  startling  song,  which 
at  first  seemed  to  come  from  a distance,  but 
gradually  drew  nearer,  like  a voice  walking  toward 
me  as  it  grew  louder  and  more  accelerated.  On 
account  of  this  quaint  ventriloquial  quality  of  voice, 
the  little  vocalist  is  often  very  difficult  to  find,  and 
you  are  sure  to  look  in  a dozen  places  before  you 
at  last  descry  him.  What  a sedate  genius  he  is, 
as  he  sits  atilt  on  a twig,  or  walks  in  his  leisurely 
fashion  on  the  leaf-carpeted  ground,  looking  up  at 
you  at  intervals  out  of  his  sage,  beady  eyes. 

I have  hinted  that  the  oven-bird  was  first  seen 
and  then  heard.  In  this  respect  the  habits  of 
different  species  of  birds  differ  widely.  The  ac- 
centors, meadow-larks,  orioles,  bobolinks,  Bewick’s 
wrens,  summer  warblers,  white-crowned  sparrows, 
and  some  other  species  usually  begin  at  once  to 
celebrate  with  paeans  their  return  to  their  old  haunts  ; 
whereas  the  wood-thrushes,  brown  thrashers,  and 
white-throated  sparrows  seem  to  wait  several  days 
after  their  arrival  before  they  tune  their  harps,  — a 
diversity  of  behavior  difficult  to  explain.  Scarcely 
less  inexplicable  is  the  fact  that  some  species  arrive 
in  scattered  flocks,  others  in  battalions  and  armies, 
and  others  still,  one  by  one.  My  notes  made  on 
this  day  contain  this  statement : “ Yesterday  I heard 
a single  call  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker ; to-day 
the  woods  are  full  of  these  birds.” 


A BIRDS'  GALA-DAY. 


*43 


On  the  first  day  of  April  the  first  Bewick’s  wren  of 
the  spring  appeared,  but,  strange  to  say,  not  another 
wren  was  seen  until  near  the  end  of  the  month.  A 
single  bird  often  goes  ahead  of  the  main  body  of 
migrants  like  a scout  or  outrider ; while  not  infre- 
quently a small  company  precedes  the  approach- 
ing army  in  the  capacity,  perhaps,  of  an  advance 
guard. 

Threading  my  way  through  the  “ dim  vistas, 
sprinkled  o’er  with  sun-flecked  green,”  to  an  open 
space  near  the  border  of  the  woods,  I had  the 
opportunity  of  listening  to  an  improvised  cat-bird 
concert,  without  a cent  of  charge  for  admission. 
Here  some  mental  notes  were  made  on  the  vocal 
qualities  of  this  bird  in  comparison  with  those  of 
the  celebrated  brown  thrasher,  and  with  some 
hesitancy  I give  my  conclusions.  Each  songster 
has  his  special  points  of  excellence.  The  thrasher 
has  more  voice  volume  than  his  rival,  his  technique 
is  better,  he  glides  more  smoothly  from  one  part 
of  his  song  to  another,  and  executes  several  runs 
that  for  pure  melody  and  skill  in  rendering  go 
beyond  the  cat-bird’s  ability ; but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  must  be  said  that  the  latter  minstrel’s  song 
contains  fewer  harsh,  coarse,  unmusical  notes ; his 
voice,  on  the  whole,  is  of  a finer  quality,  is  pitched 
to  a higher  key,  and  his  vocal  performances  are  char- 
acterized by  greater  artlessness  or  ?iawete.  Though 
professing  to  be  no  connoisseur,  I have  never  felt  so 
deeply  stirred  by  the  thrasher’s  as  by  the  cat-bird’s 
minstrelsy.  There  does  not  seem  to  be  so  much 


144 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


fervor  and  real  passion  in  the  vocal  efforts  of  the 
tawny  musician. 

A little  farther  on,  I again  turned  my  steps  into 
a dense  section  of  the  woods.  Suddenly  there  was 
a twinkle  of  wings,  a flash  of  olive-green,  a sharp 
Chip , and  then  there  before  me,  a few  rods  away, 
a little  bird  went  hopping  about  on  the  ground, 
picking  up  dainties  from  the  brown  leaves.  What 
could  it  be  ? Was  I about  to  find  a species  that 
was  new  to  me?  It  really  seemed  so.  My  opera- 
glass,  when  levelled  upon  the  bird,  revealed  olive- 
green  upper  parts,  yellow  or  buff  under  parts,  and 
four  black  stripes  on  the  head,  two  on  the  pileum 
and  one  through  each  eye.  It  was  the  rare  worm- 
eating warbler  ( Helmitherus  vermivorus)  at  last,  — a 
bird  that  had  for  many  years  eluded  me.  The  little 
charmer  was  quite  wary,  chirping  nervously  while  I 
ogled  him,  — for  it  was  a male,  — and  then  hopped  up 
into  a sapling,  and  finally  scurried  away  out  of  sight. 

A few  steps  farther  on  in  the  woods  an  extremely 
fine  cat-like  call  swung  down,  like  thread  of  sound, 
from  the  tree-tops.  Of  course,  it  was  my  tiny 
acquaintance  the  blue-gray  gnat-catcher,  and  his 
pretty  spouse,  who  had  arrived,  perhaps  from  Cuba 
or  Guatemala,  a few  days  before.  What  an  immense 
distance  for  their  frail  little  wings  to  traverse, 
“ through  tracts  and  provinces  of  sky ” ! You 
seldom  see  anything  more  dainty  and  dream-like 
than  the  fluttering  of  these  birds  from  one  tree-top 
to  another,  reminding  you  of  an  animated  cloudlet 
hovering  and  darting  about  in  mid-air.  Not  a more 


A BIRDS ’ GALA-DAY. 


*45 


faj-like  bird  visits  my  woodland  than  the  blue-gray 
gnat-catcher.  Even  the  ruby-throated  humming- 
bird, though  still  smaller,  seems  rather  roly-poly 
in  comparison ; and  no  warbler,  not  even  the  grace- 
ful redstart,  can  flit  about  so  airily.  One  of  the 
gnat-catchers  in  the  tree-top  presently  darted  out 
after  a miller,  which  tried  to  escape  by  letting  itself 
fall  toward  the  ground.  A vigorous  drama  followed. 
The  bird  plunged  nimbly  after,  whirling  round  and 
round  in  a spiral  course  until  it  had  secured  its 
wriggling  prize. 

The  gnat-catcher  lisps  a little  song,  — a gossamer 
melody,  it  might  be  called.  His  slender  voice 
has  quite  a “ resonant  tang.”  On  that  day  I did 
not  take  notes  on  his  music,  but  the  next  day  I 
had  a good  opportunity  to  do  so ; and  I give  the 
result,  especially  as  no  minute  description  of  this 
bird’s  song  has  been  recorded,  so  far  as  I know. 
I had  often  heard  it  before,  but  had  neglected  to 
listen  to  it  intently  enough  to  analyze  its  peculiar 
quality.  Bending  my  ear  upon  it,  I distinctly 
and  unmistakably  detected,  besides  the  bird’s  own 
notes,  the  notes  of  three  other  birds,  — those  of  the 
cat-bird’s  alarm-call,  of  the  phoebe’s  song,  and  of  the 
goldfinch’s  song  and  call.  The  imitation  in  each 
case  was  perfect,  save  that  the  gnat-catcher’s  tones 
were  slenderer  than  those  of  the  birds  whose  music 
he  had  (if  I may  so  speak)  plagiarized.  Is  this 
tiny  minstrel  a mocker?  Perhaps  my  description 
may  be  a surprise  to  many  students  of  bird  min- 
strelsy, but  I can  only  say  that,  having  listened  to 


io 


146 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


the  song  for  fully  an  hour,  I could  not  well  have 
been  mistaken.  Several  times  the  reproduction  of 
the  goldfinch’s  song  was  so  perfect  that  I looked 
the  tree  all  over  again  and  again  with  my  glass  for 
that  bird,  but  goldfinches  there  were  none  about. 
Moreover,  the  gnat-catcher  was  in  plain  sight, 
dropping  quite  low  in  the  tree  part  of  the  time  ; and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  every  strain  proceeded 
from  his  lyrical  little  throat. 

The  forenoon  and  part  of  the  afternoon  slipped 
away  all  too  rapidly,  bringing  many  valuable  additions 
to  my  stock  of  bird  lore ; but  I must  pass  others 
by  to  describe  the  most  important  “ find  ” (to  me) 
of  this  red-letter  day  in  my  experience.  At  about 
half-past  four  o’clock  I reached  an  old  bush-covered 
gravel-bank  where  many  birds  of  various  species 
have  been  encountered.  As  I stepped  near  a pool 
at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  a little  bird  flashed  into 
view,  setting  my  pulses  all  a-flutter.  It  was  the 
hooded  warbler,  the  first  of  the  species  I had  ever 
seen.  He  was  recognizable  at  once  by  the  bright 
yellow  hood  he  wore,  bordered  all  around  with  deep 
black.  A bright,  flitting  blossom  of  the  bird  world  ! 

For  fully  an  hour  I lingered  in  that  “ embowered 
solitude,”  watching  the  bird’s  quaint  behavior,  which 
deserves  more  than  a mere  passing  notice.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  shy  or  nervous,  but  seemed  rather 
to  court  my  presence.  Almost  every  moment  was 
spent  in  capturing  insects  on  the  wing  or  in  sitting 
on  a perch  watching  for  them  to  flash  into  view. 
Like  a genuine  flycatcher,  as  soon  as  a buzzing  insect 


A BIRDS'  GALA-DAY. 


M7 


hove  in  sight,  he  would  dart  out  after  it,  and  never 
once  failed  to  secure  his  prize.  Sometimes  he  would 
plunge  swiftly  downward  after  a gnat  or  a miller,  and 
once,  having  caught  a miller  that  was  large  and  in- 
clined to  be  refractory,  he  flew  to  the  ground,  beat 
it  awhile  on  the  clods,  and  then  swallowed  it  with  a 
consequential  air  which  seemed  to  say,  “ That  is 
my  way  of  disposing  of  such  cases  ! ” Several  times 
he  mounted  almost  straight  up  from  his  perch,  and 
twice  he  almost  turned  a somersault  in  pursuit  of  an 
insect.  Once  he  clung  like  a titmouse  to  the  bole 
of  a sapling.  I could  often  hear  the  snapping  of 
his  mandibles  as  he  nabbed  his  prey.  When  an  in- 
sect came  between  him  and  myself,  he  would  fear- 
lessly dash  directly  toward  me,  as  if  he  meant  to  fly 
in  my  face  or  alight  on  my  head,  often  coming  within 
a few  feet  of  me.  He  seemed  to  be  as  confiding 
as  a child.  When  I stepped  to  the  other  end  of  the 
gravel -bank,  going  even  a little  beyond  it,  curiously 
enough,  the  bird  pursued  me ; then,  as  an  experi- 
ment, I walked  back  to  my  first  post  of  observation, 
and,  to  my  surprise,  he  followed  me  again.  Was  he 
really  desirous  of  my  company?  Or  did  he  know 
that  I intended  to  ring  his  praises  in  type?  At 
length  I stole  away  a short  distance  among  the  trees, 
but  presently  a loud  chirping  in  my  rear  arrested 
my  attention.  I turned  back,  and  found  it  to  be 
my  new-made  friend,  the  hooded  warbler,  who, 
strange  to  say,  seemed  to  be  calling  me  back  to  his 
haunt.  Then  I climbed  to  the  top  of  the  gravel- 
bank  ; he  selected  perches  higher  up  in  the  saplings 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


148 

than  before,  so  as  to  be  nearer  me,  — at  least,  so  it 
appeared.  The  affectionate  little  darling  ! The  only 
other  sound  he  uttered  during  the  entire  time  of 
our  hobnobbing  — his  and  mine  — was  the  slenderest 
hint  of  a song,  which  was  really  more  of  a twitter 
than  a tune. 

But  at  last  I bade  the  little  sorcerer  a reluctant 
adieu.  In  a hollow  of  the  woods  I lay  down  on  the 
green  grass,  and  listened  for  half  an  hour  to  the 
lyrical  medley  of  a brown  thrasher  perched  on  a 
treetop.  It  was  indeed  a wonderful  performance, 
and  the  longer  I listened  the  more  its  witchery  grew 
upon  me.  My  special  purpose  in  bending  my  whole 
attention  upon  this  performance  was  to  see  if  the 
thrasher  mimicked  the  songs  of  other  birds.  Many 
persons  think  him  a genuine  imitator ; indeed,  in 
some  places  he  is  called  the  northern  mocking-bird. 
I am  forced  to  say,  however,  that,  as  far  as  my  obser- 
vation goes,  he  does  not  mimic,  but  sings  his  own  com- 
positions, like  the  original  genius  he  is.  In  all  that 
song,  and  others  since  listened  to,  not  a single  strain 
did  he  utter  that  I could  positively  identify  as  be- 
longing to  the  musical  repertoire  of  another  bird. 
It  is  true,  he  sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  his  song, 
uttered  the  alarm  call  of  the  robin  ; but  as  both  birds 
belong  to  the  same  family,  this  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  and  affords  no  evidence  of  the  gift  of 
imitation.  If  the  thrasher  does  mimic  his  fellow- 
minstrels,  as  many  persons  contend,  the  borrowed 
notes  are  so  brief  and  so  intermingled  and  blent 
with  his  own  music  as  to  be  unrecognizable. 


A BIRDS'  GALA-DAY. 


149 


On  the  other  hand,  this  tawny  vocalist  utters  musi- 
cal strains  that  are  entirely  unlike  anything  else  in 
the  whole  realm  of  bird  minstrelsy,  proving  his  song 
to  be  characteristic.  The  brown  thrasher  is  not  a 
musical  pirate,  but  an  original  composer,  — a sort  of 
Mozart  or  Beethoven  in  the  bird  world.  And  how 
wonderful  are  some  of  his  slurred  runs  ! Nothing 
in  the  domain  of  music  could  be  finer,  and  the  harsh 
notes  he  frequently  interpolates  only  serve  to  ac- 
centuate and  enhance  the  melody  of  those  that  are 
truly  lyrical. 

In  his  engaging  book  entitled  “ Birds  in  the  Bush,” 
Bradford  Torrey,  who  is  second  to  none  in  the  school 
of  popular  writers  on  feathered  folk,  characterizes  this 
tawny  vocalist  in  a most  admirable  manner.  How- 
ever, in  regard  to  the  matter  of  mimicry,  his  obser- 
vations differ  slightly  from  my  own;  yet  I gladly 
quote  what  he  says  rather  incidentally  on  the  subject. 
One  day  he  was  listening  to  three  thrashers  singing 
simultaneously.  “ In  the  midst  of  the  hurly-burly,” 
he  writes,  “one  of  the  trio  suddenly  sounded  the 
whippoorwill’s  call  twice,  — an  absolutely  perfect  re- 
production.” Then  he  adds,  somewhat  jocosely,  in 
a foot-note  : “ The  6 authorities  7 long  since  forbade 
Harporhynchus  rufus  to  play  the  mimic.  Probably  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  this  fellow  forgot  him- 
self.” Of  course,  one  cannot  gainsay  the  testimony 
of  so  careful  an  observer  and  so  conscientious  a re- 
porter as  Mr.  Torrey;  yet  it  is  possible  that  this 
whippoorwill  call  was  only  a slip  of  the  thrasher’s 
voice  and  not  an  intended  imitation ; at  all  events, 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


*5° 

in  my  opinion,  such  vocal  coincidences,  whether 
accidental  or  designed,  are  of  rare  occurrence. 

Since  the  foregoing  observations  were  made  and 
first  published,  I have  often  sought  to  prove  them 
untrue,  but  have  failed.  No  thrasher  has  ever,  in 
my  hearing,  unmistakably  plagiarized  a single  strain 
from  his  fellow-musicians.  Fearing  my  ear  for  music 
might  be  defective,  rendering  me  incapable  of  distin- 
guishing correctly  the  various  songs  of  birds,  I put 
myself  to  the  test  in  this  way  : On  one  of  the  streets 
of  my  native  town  there  is  a brilliant  mocking-bird, 
whose  cage  is  often  hung  out  on  a veranda.  Again 
and  again  I have  stopped  to  listen  to  his  ringing 
medley,  and  have  never  failed  to  hear  him  distinctly 
mimic  the  songs  and  calls  of  other  birds,  such  as 
the  robin,  blue  jay,  cardinal  grossbeak,  and  red- 
headed woodpecker.  Why  should  I be  able  in- 
stantly to  detect  the  notes  of  other  birds  in  the 
mocker's  song  and  never  once  be  able  to  detect 
them  in  the  song  of  the  thrasher? 

But  it  is  fully  time  to  return  to  my  ramble.  The 
gifted  songster  in  the  tree-top  would  sometimes  pipe 
a strain  of  such  exquisite  sweetness  that  it  seemed 
to  surprise  himself ; he  would  pause  a moment,  as  if 
to  reflect  upon  it  and  fix  it  in  mind  for  future  use ; 
and  erelong  he  would  repeat  it,  reminding  his  ad- 
miring auditor  of  Browning’s  lines  on  the  Wise 
Thrush,  — 

“ He  sings  each  song  twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture.” 


A BIRDS ’ GALA-DAY. 


New  strains  were  continually  introduced.  So  loud 
and  full  were  some  of  his  notes  that  “ the  blue  air 
trembled  with  his  song,”  and  the  woods  fairly  woke 
into  echoes.  It  is  really  doubtful  if  the  disparaging 
term  “hurly-burly”  should  be  applied  to  such  peer- 
less vocalization.  It  was  bird  opera  music  of  the 
highest  style,  improvised  for  the  occasion,  and  formed 
a fitting  conclusion  to  this  rare  birds’  gala-day. 


lS2 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


XIV. 

RIFE  WITH  BIRDS. 

A JAUNT  TO  A NEW  FIELD. 

FOUR  days’  outing  along  the  Ohio  River  one 


spring  brought  me  some  “ finds”  that  may  be 
of  interest  to  bird  lovers.  Everywhere  there  were 
the  twinkle  of  wings,  the  twitter  of  voices,  and  the 
charm  of  song;  indeed,  so  plentiful  were  the 
feathered  folk  that  the  title  of  this  article  is  far 
less  poetical  than  realistic  and  descriptive.  It  was 
the  latter  part  of  May,  the  time  in  that  latitude 
when  the  birds  were  in  full  song,  at  least  those 
which  were  not  too  busy  with  their  family  cares. 
Sixty-four  species  were  seen  during  a stay  of  four 
days  in  the  neighborhood. 

Mine  host  was  a farmer  whose  premises  afforded  a 
habitat  for  numerous  birds,  there  being  many  trees 
and  bushes  in  the  yard  and  a large  orchard  near 
by.  In  one  of  the  silver  maples  a pair  of  war- 
bling vireos  had  built  a tiny  pendent  cradle,  as  is 
their  wont,  set  in  a bower  of  shining  twigs  and 
green  leaves.  There  it  swayed  in  the  zephyrs,  rock- 
ing the  birdlings  to  sleep  and  filling  their  dreams 
with  rhythm ; and  the  lullabies  that  the  happy 


RIFE  WITH  BIRDS. 


I53 

parents  sang  were  cheerful  and  engaging,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  some  critic  has  pronounced  the  min- 
strelsy of  the  warbling  vireo  tiresome.  Tiresome, 
forsooth  ! Truth  to  tell,  the  more  closely  you  listen 
to  it  the  sweeter  it  grows.  All  day  long,  from  peep 
of  dawn  to  evening  twilight,  those  quaint,  continuous 
lays  could  be  heard,  now  subdued  and  desultory, 
now  almost  as  vigorous  as  a robin’s  carol. 

It  sometimes  seemed  as  if  the  vireos  and  orchard 
orioles  were  rival  vocalists.  If  so,  a prize  should  be 
awarded  to  both,  — to  the  vireos  for  persistency,  for 
never  letting  up ; to  the  orioles  for  richness  and 
melody  of  tone.  Many  a rollicking  two-part  con- 
cert they  gave. 

But  there  were  other  voices  frequently  heard  in 
the  chorus,  though  not  so  continuously  as  those  of 
the  birds  just  mentioned.  A song-sparrow,  which 
had  built  a dainty  cot  in  a bush  not  two  rods  from 
the  veranda,  sometimes  trilled  an  interlude  of  en- 
trancing sweetness,  taking  the  bays  for  real  tuneful- 
ness from  every  rival.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  a 
Maryland  yellow-throat,  shy  little  fellow  in  other 
places,  would  frequently  sing  his  heart  out  in  the 
small  trees  and  silver  maples  of  the  front  yard.  He 
did  not  fly  off  or  discontinue  his  song  when  an 
auditor  stood  right  beneath  his  perch,  but  would 
throw  back  his  masked  head,  distend  his  golden 
throat,  and  deliver  his  trill  to  his  own  and  every- 
body else’s  satisfaction.  Very  often,  too,  the  indigo- 
bird,  just  returned  from  a bath  in  the  cerulean 
depths,  would  enrich  the  harmony  with  the  most 


T54 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


rollicksome,  if  not  the  most  tuneful  lay  of  the 
chorus.  As  a sort  of  accompaniment,  the  chipping- 
sparrow  often  trilled  his  silvery  monotone ; and  once 
a robin  added  his  Cheerily , here , here  / 

So  much  for  the  birds  about  the  house,  though 
there  were  many  others  that  have  not  been  men- 
tioned ; in  fact,  there  were  some  twenty  species  in 
all.  There  were  also  birds  a-plenty  in  other  places. 
A half  day  was  spent  in  some  fields  bordering  the 
broad  river.  On  a green  slope  was  a bush-sparrow’s 
nest,  daintily  bowered  in  the  grass  by  the  side  of  a 
blackberry  bush,  and  in  a thicket  hard  by  two 
yellow-breasted  chats  had  placed  their  grassy  cradles, 
proclaiming  their  secret  to  all  the  world  by  their 
loud  cries  of  warning  to  keep  away.  It  is  odd  that 
these  birds,  shy  and  nervous  as  they  are,  should  go 
so  far  out  of  their  way  to  tell  you  that  they  have  a 
nest  somewhere  in  the  copse  that  you  mustn’t 
touch,  mustn’t  even  look  for.  While  you  are  yet  a 
quarter  of  a mile  away,  they  will  utter  their  loud 
cries  of  warning ; and  if  you  go  to  the  thicket  where 
they  are,  you  will  be  almost  sure  to  find  their  nest, 
so  poorly  have  they  learned  the  lesson  of  discretion. 

In  a little  hollow  of  the  copse  a dying  crow  lay 
prone  upon  the  ground.  At  intervals  he  would 
struggle  and  gasp  in  a spasmodic  way.  When  I 
gently  moved  him  with  my  cane,  he  grasped  it  with 
his  claws  and  held  it  quite  firmly.  I put  the  stick 
to  his  large  black  beak.  He  took  hold  of  it  feebly, 
ready  to  defend  himself  even  with  his  last  gasp,  for 
that  it  proved  to  be ; he  lay  over  and  died  the  next 


RIFE  WITH  BIRDS. 


T55 


instant.  I could  not  give  the  pathology  of  the 
case,  as  no  wounds  could  be  found  on  his  body. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  finds  of  the  day  was 
the  nest  of  a green  heron,  often  called  “ fly-up-the- 
creek.”  The  nest,  only  a loosely  constructed  plat- 
form of  sticks,  was  placed  on  the  branches  of  a 
leaning  clump  of  small  trees,  and  was  about  twenty 
feet  from  the  ground.  The  startled  bird  flew  back 
and  forth  in  the  row  of  trees,  and  even  went  back 
to  the  nest  while  I watched  her  at  a distance,  but 
was  too  shy  to  remain  there  when  I went  near.  In 
spite  of  the  offensive  nicknames  foisted  upon  this 
heron,  it  is  a handsome  bird.  As  this  one  flew  back 
and  forth  she  made  quite  an  elegant  picture,  with 
her  long,  glossy-brown  neck  and  tail,  white  throat- 
line, ash-blue  back,  dappled  under  parts,  and  the 
long,  slender  feathers  draping  her  hind-neck.  But 
why  was  she  called  the  green  heron?  Look  as 
sharply  as  I would,  I could  descry  no  green  in  her 
plumage.  A few  days  later,  however,  I examined 
a mounted  specimen,  and  then  the  puzzle  was 
solved ; for  an  iridescent  green  patch  on  the  wing 
was  so  marked  a feature  of  its  coloration  as  to  ac- 
count for  the  bird’s  common  name. 

Memory  will  always  linger  fondly  about  a certain 
afternoon  and  evening  spent  on  the  steep  hills 
mounting  up  toward  the  sky  a quarter  of  a mile  or 
more  back  from  the  river.  To  a pedestrian  like 
myself,  used  to  rambling  over  a comparatively  level 
scope  of  country,  these  high  hills  afforded  a wonder- 
ful prospect,  and  almost  made  my  head  dizzy,  as  I 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


156 

clambered  far  up  their  steep  sides.  Perhaps  the 
mountain-climber  would  think  them  tame.  It  made 
my  head  swim  that  evening  to  see  a towhee  bunting 
dart  from  a copse  near  by  and  hurl  himself  with  reck- 
less abandon  down  the  declivity,  as  if  there  were  not 
the  slightest  danger  of  breaking  his  neck  or  dashing 
himself  to  pieces.  He  stopped  just  in  time  to 
plunge  into  another  thicket  for  which  he  had  taken 
aim. 

As  the  sun  sank,  I seated  myself  on  the  grass  far 
up  the  steep,  and  looked  down  on  the  beautiful 
valley  below  me.  There  was  the  broad  Ohio,  wend- 
ing its  way  between  the  sentinel  hills,  the  green 
clover  fields  and  meadows  smiling  good-night  to  the 
sinking  sun,  and  the  brown  ploughed  fields  with  their 
green  corn-rows.  A wood-thrush  mounted  to  a dead 
twig  at  the  very  top  of  a tall  oak  some  distance 
below  me,  and  poured  forth  his  sad  vesper  hymn, 
so  bewitchingly  sweet  and  far-away ; the  while  Ken- 
tucky warblers  and  cardinal  grossbeaks  piped  their 
lullabies  or  madrigals,  as  they  chose,  from  the  dark- 
ling woods;  and,  altogether,  it  was  a never-to-be- 
forgotten  evening. 

An  early  morning  hour  found  me  climbing  the  ac- 
clivity and  mounting  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  In  a 
clover-field  the  gossamer  Tse-e-e  of  the  grasshopper 
sparrow,  a birdlet  among  birds,  pierced  my  ear. 
Presently  a pair  of  these  sparrows  were  seen  on  the 
fence-stakes,  and,  yes,  one  of  them  had  a worm  in 
its  bill,  indicating  that  there  were  little  ones  in  the 
neighborhood.  If  I could  find  a grasshopper  spar- 


RIFE  WITH  BIRDS. 


1 57 

row’s  nest ! 4 Often  had  I sought  for  one,  but  with- 
out success.  For  a long  while  my  eyes  followed  the 
bird  with  the  worm  in  her  bill.  Every  now  and  then 
she  would  dart  over  into  the  grass  as  if  to  feed  her 
bantlings,  and  I would  mark  the  spot  where  she 
alighted ; but  when  I went  to  it  no  nest  or  bird- 
lings  were  to  be  found.  Again  and  again  I fairly 
trembled,  thinking  myself  on  the  verge  of  a dis- 
covery, only  to  be  balked  completely  in  the  end. 
But  one  victory  was  won ; I got  close  enough  to  the 
bird  to  see  distinctly  with  my  glass  the  yellow  mark- 
ings on  the  edge  of  the  wings,  — a characteristic  I 
had  never  before  been  able  to  make  out.  Curiously 
enough,  one  wing  of  this  bird  was  quite  profusely 
tinged  with  yellow,  while  the  yellow  of  the  other 
could  just  be  distinguished. 

Why  should  not  a bird- student  frankly  chronicle 
his  failures  as  well  as  his  successes  ? During  the 
day  I encountered  three  birds  that  I was  unable  to 
identify,  try  as  I would.  One  was  singing  lustily  in 
some  tall  trees,  and  when  at  length  I got  my  glass 
upon  him  he  looked  like  a Carolina  wren ; but  that 
bird  has  been  a familiar  acquaintance  for  many  years, 
— comparatively  speaking,  — and  I have  so  often 
heard  his  varied  roundels  that  they  certainly  are  all 
known  to  me.  Moreover,  the  quality  of  this  mys- 
terious singer’s  voice  and  the  manner  of  his  execu- 
tion were  wholly  different  from  those  of  the  Carolina 
or  any  other  wren  of  my  acquaintance.  The  fol- 
lowing is  a transcription  of  the  song  as  near  as  it 
could  be  represented  by  letters  : Che-ha-p-e-e-r-r-r ! 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


158 

che-ha-p-e-e-r-r-r ! repeated  at  brief  intervals  loudly 
and  vigorously,  but  without  variation.  The  bird  had 
a white  superciliary  line,  brownish- barred  wings,  and 
whitish  under  parts.  A consultation  of  all  the  man- 
uals in  my  possession  fails  to  solve  the  problem. 

In  a deep  gorge,  cut  through  the  country  by  a 
small  creek  — small  now,  at  least  — on  its  way  to 
the  river,  two  curious  bird  calls  were  heard ; but  one 
bird  kept  himself  hidden  in  a dense  thicket,  and  the 
other  bolted  into  the  dark  woods  that  covered  a 
steep  acclivity.  The  first  bird  sang  rather  than 
called,  and  the  words  he  said  sounded  quite  dis- 
tinct : Che-o-wadd ll-wadd ll-chip  ! — a sentiment  that 
he  repeated  again  and  again. 

In  spite  of  these  disappointments  my  jaunt  through 
this  ravine  was  exceedingly  pleasant, — so  delightfully 
quiet  and  solitary;  not  a human  sound  to  disturb 
the  sacredness  of  the  place ; nothing  but  the  songs 
and  calls  of  wild  birds. 

“ ’T  was  one  of  those  charmed  days 

When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow; 

The  wind  may  alter  twenty  ways, 

A tempest  cannot  blow: 

It  may  blow  north,  it  still  is  warm  ; 

Or  south,  it  still  is  clear ; 

Or  east,  it  smells  like  a clover-farm  ; 

Or  west,  no  thunder  fear.” 

In  one  of  the  loneliest  parts  of  the  ravine  there 
appeared  on  the  scene  my  first  Louisiana  water- 
thrush,  often  called  the  large-billed  wagtail.  There 
it  stood  “ teetering  ” ona  spray  or  a rock,  or  skim- 
ming through  the  shallow  water,  its  speckled  breast 


RIFE  WITH  BIRDS. 


*59 


and  olive  back  harmonizing  — I had  almost  said 
rhyming  — with  the  gray  of  the  creek’s  bed,  the 
crystal  of  the  water,  and  the  green  of  the  thicket- 
fringed  banks.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  the  scene, 
— a lone  bird  in  a lone  place.  But,  hold  ! not 
lone,  after  all.  Presently  a young  wagtail,  the 
image  of  its  mamma,  emerged  from  somewhere  or 
nowhere,  and  ran  toward  the  old  bird  with  open 
mouth,  twinkling  wings,  and  a pretty,  coaxing  call. 
She  thrust  something  into  its  mouth ; but  still  the 
bantling  coaxed  for  more,  when  she  dashed  away  a 
few  feet,  picked  up  another  tidbit  from  the  water, 
ran  back  to  her  little  charge,  and  fed  it  again.  But 
now,  when  it  still  pursued  her,  she  seemed  to  lose 
her  patience,  for  she  rushed  threateningly  toward  it, 
causing  it  to  scamper  away,  and  then  she  flew  off. 
Yet  after  that  she  fed  either  the  same  or  another 
youngster  a number  of  times.  Once  a water- thrush 
went  swinging  down  the  gorge,  the  very  poetry  of 
graceful  poise  and  movement,  looking  more  like  a 
naiad  than  a real  flesh-and-blood  birdlet. 

On  a horizontal  branch  extending  out  over  the 
rippling  stream,  a wood-thrush  sat  on  her  mud 
cottage  ; but  whether  she  appreciated  the  romantic 
character  of  the  situation  or  not,  she  did  not  say. 
There  were  many  other  interesting  feathered  folk  in 
the  gorge  and  on  its  wcoded  steeps,  each  “ a 
brother  of  the  dancing  leaves ; ” but  to  describe 
them  all  would  take  too  long,  and  merely  to  name 
them  would  be  too  much  like  reciting  a dry 
catalogue. 


i6o 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


XV. 

VARIOUS  PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.1 

I. 


O one  who  has  studied  the  birds  can  deny  that 


there  is  genuine  sexual  love  among  them. 
Many  species  act  on  the  principle  that  “ a pure  life 
for  two  ” is  the  only  kind  of  life  to  live,  and  there- 
fore  a match  once  made  is  a match  that  lasts  until 
death  does  them  part.  There  may  be  fickleness, 
divorce,  and  downright  unfaithfulness  among  birds 
sometimes,  and  there  certainly  is  polygamy  among 
some  species  ; but  such  examples  of  irregularity  are 
rather  the  exception  than  the  rule.  Monogamy 
largely  prevails,  and  I have  no  doubt  that  any 
departure  from  the  regular  connubial  relation  creates 
a scandal  in  bird  circles. 

As  in  the  human  world,  so  in  the  bird  world  a 
period  of  courtship  precedes  the  celebration  of  the 
nuptials.  But  the  mode  differs  in  different  kingdoms 
of  creation.  Many  lovers  in  feathers  conduct  their 

1 This  series  of  papers,  as  well  as  some  others  in  this  vol- 
ume, was  written  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Amos  R.  Wells, 
of  “ The  Golden  Rule,”  Boston,  and  was  first  published  in 
that  journal. 


BIRD  COURTSHIP. 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  161 

wooing  in  a somewhat  rudely  persistent  and  obtru- 
sive fashion.  Society  would  soon  ostracize  the 
human  suitor  having  such  manners,  and  might  even 
consider  him  amenable  to  the  civil  courts,  and  put 
him  in  jail  as  a character  unfit  to  be  abroad.  How- 
ever, if  hot  pursuit,  brazen  manners,  and  half-coer- 
cive measures  are  considered  “ good  form  ” in 
bird  land,  we  of  the  human  genus  are  the  last  who 
have  a right  to  find  fault,  for  are  we  not  the  most 
conventional  beings  on  the  face  of  the  earth?  You 
might  almost  as  well  be  in  limbo  or  inferno  as  out 
of  style.  Was  there  not  a time  when  even  the 
flaming  sunflower  was  regarded  as  the  highest 
emblem  of  the  beautiful,  merely  because  it  was  the 
“ fad,”  and  not  because  anybody  really  felt  that  it 
possessed  special  aesthetic  qualities  ? “ People  who 

live  in  glass  houses  ought  not  to  throw  stones,”  is 
the  saucy  challenge  of  the  merry  chickadee  to  his 
human  critic,  as  he  dashes,  like  an  animated  “ nigger- 
chaser,”  after  the  little  Dulcinea  whom  he  has 
marked  for  his  bride.  Then  he  stops,  and,  balancing 
on  a spray,  whistles  his  sweetest  minor  tune,  Pe-e - 
w-e-e , pe-e-e-w-e-e  ; which,  being  interpreted,  prob- 
ably means,  — 

“ Does  not  all  the  blood  within  me 
Leap  to  meet  thee,  leap  to  meet  thee, 

As  the  spring  to  meet  the  sunshine  ? ” 

No  doubt  many  a feathered  swain  is  smitten,  and 
smitten  very  deeply  too,  with  Cupid's  arrow,  flung 
by  some  charming  capturer  of  hearts.  A little  boy’s 
love-letter  to  a lassie  who  had  taken  his  throb- 


ii 


162 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


bing  heart  by  storm,  ran  thus  : “ I love  you  very 
dearly.  You  are  so  nice  that  I don’t  blame  any- 
body for  falling  in  love  with  you.  I don’t  see  why 
everybody  does  n’t  fall  in  love  with  you.”  If  one 
may  judge  from  the  impetuosity  with  which  most 
feathered  lovers  press  their  suits,  there  must  be 
many  instances  of  such  captivation  in  bird  land. 

Have  you  ever  been  witness  of  the  wooing  of  that 
half-knightly,  half-boorish  bird,  the  yellow-hammer? 
In  the  grove  near  my  house  several  pairs  of  these 
birds  had  a great  time  one  spring  settling  their 
hymeneal  affairs.  For  hours  a lover  would  pursue 
the  object  of  his  affections  around  and  around,  never 
giving  her  a moment’s  respite.  No  sooner  had  she 
gone  bounding  to  another  tree  than  he  would  dash 
after,  often  flinging  himself  recklessly  right  upon  the 
spot  where  she  had  alighted,  compelling  her  to  hitch 
away,  to  avoid  being  struck  by  her  impetuous  lover. 
His  policy  seemed  to  be  to  take  her  heart  by  storm, 
to  wear  her  out,  to  give  her  no  time  to  think  matters 
over,  to  compel  her,  nolens  volens , to  consent  to  his 
proposed  marital  alliance.  No  doubt  she  finally 
said  yes,  merely  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  then  failed 
of  her  purpose.  After  the  courtship  has  passed  its 
first  stage,  and  the  wooed  one  has  grown  less  shy, 
the  bowings  and  scrapings  of  the  yellow-hammers 
are  truly  ludicrous.  The  female  will  flit  away  only 
a short  distance,  and  will  sometimes  turn  toward  her 
mottled  suitor,  when  they  will  wag  their  heads  at 
each  other,  now  to  this  side,  now  to  that,  in  the 
most  serio-comical  manner  imaginable.  It  is  the 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  163 

way  these  lords  and  ladies  of  woodpeckerdom  make 
their  royal  obeisances. 

On  a pleasant  day  in  February  two  downy  wood- 
peckers were  “ scraping  acquaintance.’ ’ The  male 
pursued  his  sweetheart  about  in  the  trees  after  the 
manner  of  his  kind ; but  occasionally  she  would 
stand  at  bay  and  apparently  challenge  him  to  come 
nearer  if  he  dared.  Then  both  of  them  would  lift 
their  striped  forms  to  an  almost  perpendicular  posi- 
tion, their  heads  and  beaks  pointing  straight  toward 
the  sky,  and  their  bodies  swaying  grotesquely  from 
side  to  side.  This  little  comedy  over,  the  finical 
miss  bolted  to  another  tree,  with  her  cavalier  in  hot 
pursuit. 

Coy  as  the  feathered  ladies  usually  seem,  many  of 
them  apparently  are  genuine  flirts,  and  would  feel 
greatly  disappointed  should  their  lovers  give  over  the 
chase.  They  evidently  want  to  be  won,  but  not  too 
easily.  (Perhaps  it  might  be  said,  en  passant , there 
are  belles  in  other  than  the  bird  community  who  resort 
to  similar  naive  and  winsome  ruses.)  In  a shady 
nook  of  the  woods  I once  saw  a gallant  towhee 
bunting  employing  all  the  arts  at  his  command  to 
win  a damsel  who  seemed  very  demure.  He  was  an 
extremely  handsomely  formed  and  finely  clad  bird, — 
a real  edition  de  luxe.  Fie  flew  down  to  the  ground, 
picked  up  a brown  leaf  in  his  bill,  and  flourished  it 
at  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  “ It  is  time  for  nest-build- 
ing, dear.”  Then  he  spread  his  wings  and  hand- 
some tail,  and  strutted  almost  like  a peacock  about 
on  the  leafy  ground.  But,  no,  she  would  not,  and 


164 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


she  would  not,  and  there  was  no  use  in  talking  ; she 
flitted,  half  contemptuously,  to  a more  distant  bush. 
That  proud  cockney  need  not  think  she  cared  for 
him  ! She  was  n’t  going  to  lose  her  heart  to  every 
lovelorn  swain  who  came  along.  But,  mark  you, 
when  I tried  to  separate  them,  by  driving  one  to 
one  side  of  the  path  and  the  other  to  the  opposite 
side,  the  little  hypocrite  contrived  every  time,  with 
admirable  finesse,  to  flit  over  toward  her  knightly 
suitor.  Three  times  the  experiment  brought  the 
same  result.  Her  maidenly  reserve  had  a good  deal 
of  calculation  in  it,  after  all,  innocent  as  she  appeared. 
Perhaps  she  had  conned  Longfellow’s  wise  quatrain  : 

“ How  can  I tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines  ? 

How  can  I tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays  ? ” 

That  the  course  of  true  love  does  not  always  run 
smooth  in  the  bird  world  as  elsewhere,  goes  without 
saying.  There  are  feuds  and  jealousies.  Sometimes 
two  beaux  admire  the  same  belle,  and  then  there 
may  be  war  to  the  death.  I have  seen  two  rival 
song-sparrows  clutch  in  the  air,  peck  and  claw  at 
each  other  viciously,  and  come  down  to  the  ground 
with  a thud  that  must  have  knocked  the  breath  out 
of  them  for  a few  moments.  Incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  an  acute  observer  of  bird  life  declares  that  the 
females  are  most  likely  to  quarrel  and  fight  over 
their  lovers.  At  such  times  the  male  stands  by, 
looks  on  approvingly,  and  lets  them  fight  it  out,  no 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  165 

doubt  pluming  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  is  of  suffi- 
cient importance  to  be  the  cause  of  a duel  or  a 
sparring-match  among  the  ladies. 

Even  those  birds  that  seem  to  be  the  impersona- 
tion of  .kindliness  often  engage  in  vigorous  wrangles 
before  they  are  able  to  settle  the  troubles  that  arise 
from  match-making.  The  bluebird,  of  the  siren 
voice  and  cerulean  hue,  is  a case  in  point.  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs describes,  in  his  inimitable  way,  the  vigorous 
campaign  of  two  pairs  of  bluebirds,  which  could  not 
decide  the  subject  of  matrimony  among  themselves 
without  resort  to  arms.  Both  the  males  and  females 
engaged  in  more  than  one  set-to.  Once  the  hot- 
headed lovers  closed  with  each  other  in  the  air,  fell 
to  the  ploughed  ground,  and  remained  there,  tugging 
and  pecking  and  tweaking  for  nearly  two  minutes. 
Yet,  when  they  separated,  neither  seemed  to  be  any 
the  worse  for  the  melee. 

The  tiny  hummers  are  extremely  belligerent  birds. 
A writer  describes  the  contests  of  certain  humming- 
birds in  the  island  of  Jamaica  when  moved  by 
jealousy.  When  two  males  have  become  rivals,  they 
will  level  their  long,  pointed  bills  at  each  other,  and 
then  dash  together  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow ; 
they  meet,  separate,  meet  again,  with  shrill  chirping, 
dart  upward,  then  downward,  and  circle  around  and 
around,  until  the  eye  grows  weary  of  watching  them, 
and  can  no  longer  follow  their  rapid  transits.  At 
length  one  falls,  exhausted,  to  the  ground,  while  the 
other  rests,  panting  and  trembling,  on  a leafy  spray, 
or  perhaps  tumbles,  mortally  wounded,  to  the  earth. 


i66 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


There  are  some  diminutive  hummers,  called  Mexi- 
can stars,  which  become  perfect  furies  when  their 
jealousy  is  aroused.  Their  throats  swell ; their  crests, 
wings,  and  tails  expand ; and  they  clinch  and  spear 
each  other  in  the  air  like  the  veriest  disciples  of 
Bellona.  Thus  a giant  passion  may  dwell  in  a 
pygmy  form. 

It  will  be  pleasant  to  turn  to  more  gentle  ways  of 
pressing  a love-suit.  The  manners  of  some  males 
are  very  courtly  while  trying  to  win  a spouse.  They 
strut  about  most  gracefully,  and  display  their  plumes 
to  the  best  advantage,  as  if  they  would  charm  the 
coy  damsel  of  their  choice.  The  dainty  kinglets 
erect  and  expand  their  crest  feathers  so  that  the 
golden  or  ruby  spot  spreads  over  the  entire  crown, 
making  them  look  handsome  indeed. 

It  has  never  been  my  good  fortune  to  witness  the 
wooing  of  the  ruffed  grouse,  miscalled  the  partridge 
in  New  England  and  the  pheasant  in  the  Middle 
States ; but  Mr.  Langille  has  seen  the  performance, 
and  with  good  reason  goes  into  raptures  over  it. 
He  describes  it  in  this  way : “ Behold  the  male 
strutting  before  the  female  in  time  of  courtship  ! 
The  first  time  I saw  him  in  this  act  I was  utterly 
at  a loss  to  identify  him.  The  ruff  about  the  neck 
is  perfectly  erect,  so  that  the  head  is  almost  dis- 
guised ; the  wings  are  partially  opened  and  drooped 
gracefully ; the  feathers  are  generally  elevated ; the 
tail,  with  its  rich,  black  band,  is  spread  to  the  ut- 
most and  thrown  forward.  Thus  he  stands,  nearly 
motionless,  a genuine  object  of  beauty.” 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


167 


One  of  the  most  brilliant  exhibitions  of  this  kind 
must  be  that  of  the  great  emerald  birds  of  Paradise, 
as  they  disport  themselves  before  the  object  of  their 
affection.  They  gather  in  flocks  of  from  twelve  to 
twenty  on  certain  trees.  Mr.  A.  R.  Wallace,  in  his 
“ Malay  Archipelago,”  gives  an  interesting  descrip- 
tion of  these  “ dancing-parties,”  as  they  are  called 
by  the  natives.  The  wings  of  the  male  birds,  he 
says,  “ are  raised  vertically  over  the  back ; the  head 
is  bent  down  and  stretched  out;  and  the  long 
plumes”  — those  that  spring  like  spray  from  the 
sides  or  shoulders  — “ are  raised  and  expanded  till 
they  form  two  magnificent  golden  fans,  striped  with 
deep  red  at  the  base,  and  fading  off  into  the  pale 
brown  tint  of  the  finely  divided  and  softly  waving 
points ; the  whole  bird  is  then  overshadowed  by 
them,  the  crouching  body,  yellow  head,  and  emerald- 
green  throat  forming  but  a foundation  and  setting 
to  the  golden  glory  which  waves  above  them.” 

No  wonder  the  maiden’s  reserve  all  melts  away, 
and  she  soon  yields  willing  consent  to  her  lover’s 
importunings  ! There  is  only  one  flaw  in  this  beau- 
tiful picture,  and  that  is  made  by  man  himself,  — 
man,  the  meddler  in  avian  happiness.  While  the 
birds  are  absorbed  in  their  courtship,  the  natives, 
for  love  of  pelf,  steal  near  and  shoot  them  with 
blunt  arrows.  Sometimes  all  the  males  are  thus 
murdered,  ruthlessly,  heartlessly,  before  the  danger  is 
discovered.  Of  course  the  mercenary  butchers  sell 
the  plumes  for  decorative  purposes.  Gold  is  the 
only  thing  that  glitters  in  the  eyes  of  a sordid  world. 
Some  people  spell  “ God  ” with  an  “ 1.” 


i68 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


No  doubt  vocal  display  also  plays  a large  part  in 
the  courtship  of  birds.  Nothing  else  in  the  early 
spring  can  wholly  account  for  the  wonderful  musical 
tournaments  that  one  hears  lilting  so  lavishly  on  the 
air.  Many  a damsel,  doubtless,  listens  to  the  numer- 
ous vocalists  of  her  neighborhood,  and  then  chooses 
the  suitor  whose  voice  possesses  the  finest  qualities, 
or  whose  madrigals  have  the  truest  ring.  How  many 
things  may  combine  to  determine  the  choice  of  the 
parties,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Perhaps  some 
birds  are  handsomer  than  others  in  the  eyes  of 
those  that  are  looking  for  mates ; perhaps  some 
have  more  courtly  and  agreeable  manners ; perhaps 
some  put  more  fervor  into  their  wooing  or  more 
passion  into  their  songs ; perhaps  some  are  better 
tempered ; others  may  be  more  industrious  or  frugal 
or  tidy,  and  thus  will  make  better  husbands  or  house- 
wives. Many  a lass  doubtless  is  sorely  puzzled  as 
to  whom  she  shall  choose  for  a mate.  One  may 
even  fancy  her  crooning  Addison’s  quaint,  paradox- 
ical lines  to  a whimsical  lover  concerning  whose 
eligibility  she  harbors  some  doubt,  — 

“ In  all  thy  humors,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 

Thou’rt  such  a touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow, 

Hast  so  much  wit  and  mirth  and  spleen  about  thee, 

That  there ’s  no  living  with  thee  or  without  thee.” 

One  question  — not  a profound  one,  I confess  — 
must  bring  this  chapter  to  a close  : Do  the  plumed 
ladies  ever  propose?  One  might  imagine  a love- 
lorn female  bird  throwing  aside  her  maidenly  reserve 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  169 

in  a fit  of  desperation,  and  singing  the  lines  of  Mrs. 
Browning,  — 

“ But  I love  you,  sir ; 

And  when  a woman  says  she  loves  a man, 

The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he  love  her  not.” 


II. 


BIRD  NURSERIES. 

A bird’s  nest  is  a bedroom,  dining-room,  sitting- 
room,  parlor,  and  nursery  all  in  one ; for  there 
the  young  birds  sleep,  eat,  rest,  entertain  their 
guests  (if  they  ever  have  any),  and  receive  their 
earliest  training.  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  in 
treating  the  nest  as  a nursery  we  make  use  of  the 
aptest  simile  that  could  be  chosen.  Those  who 
have  not  given  the  matter  special  attention  would 
scarcely  suspect  how  many  and  varied  are  the  in- 
terests that  cluster  around  these  dwellings  of  our  little 
brothers  and  sisters  of  field  and  woodland.  The 
growth  of  the  bantling  family,  their  mental  develop- 
ment, their  deportment  in  the  nest,  their  chirpings 
and  chatterings,  their  way  of  beguiling  the  time,  the 
length  of  their  stay  in  their  childhood  home,  — all 
these,  and  many  other  problems  of  equally  absorbing 
interest,  can  be  solved  only  by  the  closest  surveil- 
lance. But  it  is  no  light  task  to  watch  a nest  at 
close  enough  range  to  study  the  natural,  unrestrained 
ways  of  the  young  birds.  The  fact  is,  in  many, 
perhaps  most,  cases  it  cannot  be  done. 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


I 70 

But  before  describing  the  inmates  of  the  nursery 
it  would  be  well  to  give  some  attention  to  the  nursery 
itself,  its  site  and  structure.  By  going  to  the  books 
I might  tell  you  of  many  quaint  nests,  of  the  nests  of 
the  tailor-bird,  the  water-ouzel,  the  parula  warbler, 
the  burrowing  owl,  and  many  others;  but — begging 
pardon  for  my  conceit  — I prefer  not  to  get  my 
material  second-hand.  One  would  rather  describe 
one’s  own  observations,  even  though  one  may  not  be 
able  to  present  so  rare  a list  of  curios.  The  nest  of 
the  common  wood-thrush,  right  here  in  my  own 
neighborhood,  is  of  far  more  personal  interest  than 
the  remarkable  nest  of  the  fairy  martin  of  Australia, 
which  I have  small  hope  of  ever  seeing. 

Having  mentioned  the  nest  of  the  wood-thrush, 
I might  as  well  begin  with  it.  It  is  not  a remarkable 
structure  from  an  architectural  point  of  view.  It  might 
be  called  a semi-adobe  dwelling,  thatched  with  vari- 
ous kinds  of  grasses  and  leaves,  and  lined  with  vege- 
table fibres.  It  is  much  like  the  nest  of  the  robin, 
only  Madam  Thrush  does  not  go  quite  so  extensively 
into  the  plastering  business.  It  has  been  interesting 
to  study  the  ingenuity  of  these  sylvan  architects  in 
choosing  sites  for  their  nests.  They  seem  to  know 
just  where  a nest  may  be  built  with  the  least  labor  in 
order  to  make  it  sit  firmly  in  its  place.  In  the  woods 
that  I most  frequently  haunt  there  is  a sort  of  bushy 
sapling  whose  branches,  at  a certain  point  on  the 
main  stem,  often  grow  out  almost  horizontally  for  a 
few  inches,  and  then  form  an  elbow  by  shooting  up 
almost  vertically,  thus  making  an  arbor,  as  it  were, 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 171 

which  says  plainly  to  the  thrush,  “ This  is  just  the 
site  for  a nest.”  In  these  crotches  the  wood-thrush 
rears  her  dwelling,  its  walls  being  firmly  supported  all 
around  by  the  perpendicular  branches.  Do  these 
saplings  grow  for  the  special  benefit  of  the  wood- 
thrush,  or  does  the  feathered  artificer  accommodate 
herself  to  the  circumstances,  or  is  there  mutual 
adaptation  between  bird  and  bush  ? That  is  a 
problem  for  the  evolutionist. 

But  the  thrush  often  selects  other  sites  for  her 
nursery.  One  day  I found  a nest  deftly  placed  on 
the  point  of  intersection  of  two  almost  horizontal 
limbs.  From  the  lower  one  several  small  branches 
grew  up  in  an  oblique  direction,  to  give  the  walls  of 
the  mud  cottage  firm  support.  The  intersecting 
boughs  belonged  to  two  different  saplings.  Another 
nest  that  did  not  have  very  strong  external  support 
was  set  down  upon  the  short  stub  of  a limb,  which 
ran  up  into  the  mud  floor  and  held  the  structure 
firmly  in  place. 

One  day  I stumbled  upon  a very  tall  thrush  nest, 
looking  almost  like  a tower  in  its  crotch.  As  the 
nestlings  had  left,  I lifted  it  from  its  place  and  tore 
it  apart,  thinking  the  thrush  might  have  fallen  upon 
the  summer  warbler’s  ruse  to  outwit  the  cow-bunting 
by  adding  another  story  to  her  hut,  thus  leaving  the 
bunting’s  intruded  egg  in  the  cellar.  But  such  was 
not  the  case ; she  had  simply  done  the  unorthodox 
thing  of  using  an  old  nest,  still  in  good  condition, 
for  a foundation  upon  which  to  rear  the  new  structure. 
Will  the  theologians  of  thrushdom  bring  charges  of 


1 72 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


heresy  against  her?  Was  it  really  a case  of  “ higher 
criticism  ”?  It  may  have  been,  especially  when  you 
remember  that  these  thrushes  often  weave  into  their 
nests  fragments  of  newspapers,  some  of  which  may 
contain  theological  discussions. 

One  peculiarity  in  the  nest-building  of  most  of  the 
birds  of  my  neighborhood  may  as  well  be  mentioned 
now  as  later ; they  seldom  build  in  the  densest  and 
most  secluded  parts  of  the  woods,  but  usually  choose 
some  bush  or  sapling  near  the  border,  or  close  to  a 
woodland  path  or  winding  road,  where  people  some- 
times pass.  Perhaps  they  do  this  because  the 
natural  enemies  of  birds,  such  as  squirrels,  minks, 
and  hawks,  fight  shy  of  these  pathways  traversed  by 
human  feet.  Perhaps,  too,  the  birds  do  not  like  the 
gloom  and  loneliness  of  the  more  sequestered  por- 
tions of  the  woods.  They  like  to  be  semi-sociable, 
at  least,  and  are  not  disposed  to  make  monks  and 
nuns  of  themselves. 

A far  more  artless  nest  is  that  of  the  turtle-dove. 
This  bird  should  attend  an  industrial  college  for  a 
term  or  two,  to  learn  the  art  of  building ; but  it 
would  do  no  good  : the  meek  little  thing  would  cling 
obstinately  to  her  inherited  ideas,  and  never  become 
a connoisseur  in  nest  construction.  Sometimes, 
when  you  stand  beneath  her  cottage,  you  can  see 
her  white  eggs  gleaming  through  the  interstices  of 
the  loosely  matted  floor.  As  a rule,  she  builds  on  a 
branch ; but  something  possessed  one  little  mother, 
in  the  spring  of  1891,10  build  her  nursery  on  a large 
stump  about  six  feet  high,  standing  right  in  the 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


*73 


midst  of  the  woods.  I fear  she  was  not  a well  trained 
bird ; but  I watched  her  closely,  and  must  concede 
that,  whether  her  conduct  was  in  “ good  form”  or 
not,  she  reared  her  brood  in  the  most  approved 
manner.  I could  come  within  two  feet  of  her,  and 
almost  touch  her  with  my  cane,  before  she  would  fly 
from  the  nest.  How  her  little  round  eyes  stared  at 
me  without  so  much  as  a blink  ! But  she  was  greatly 
agitated,  for  her  bosom  palpitated  with  the  violent 
throbbing  of  her  heart. 

“ I ’ve  found  a turtle-dove’s  nest  on  the  ground/’ 
said  my  friend,  the  young  farmer  across  the  fields, 
one  spring  day.  (No  matter  about  the  year  of  grace, 
for  every  year  is  a year  of  grace  in  bird  study.)  My 
head  was  shaken  skeptically,  and  I smiled  in  a 
patronizing  way,  for  a turtle-dove’s  nest  on  the 
ground  was  an  unknown  quantity  in  all  my  study  of 
birds ; but  my  friend  declared,  “ Honest  Injun  ! ” 
and  I left  him  to  his  obstinate  opinions.  But,  hold  ! 
who,  after  all,  proved  to  be  the  donkey?  A few 
days  later  I myself  stumbled  upon  a turtle-dove’s 
nest  in  a clover-field,  flat  on  the  ground.  Bird 
students,  be  careful  how  you  dispute  the  word  of 
these  sharp-eyed  tillers  of  the  soil  ! 

But  for  birds  that  invariably  choose  old  mother 
earth  for  the  foundation  of  their  houses,  commend 
me  to  the  American  meadow-larks.  In  this  respect 
they  are  certainly  groundlings,  though  not  in  a bad 
sense.  All  their  nests  are  constructed  on  the  same 
general  plan,  it  is  true  ; but  the  details  are  quite 
diverse,  proving  that  architectural  designs  in  the  lark 


174 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


guild  of  builders  are  almost  as  numerous  as  the 
builders  themselves.  My  young  farmer  friend  found 
a nest  early  in  the  spring,  with  not  a blade  of  grass 
near  it  for  protection,  while  the  structure  itself  was 
arched  over  only  a very  little  in  the  rear.  Another 
nest  was  situated  in  a pasture,  and  was  almost  as 
devoid  of  roofing  as  was  the  first  nest.  But  rather 
late  in  the  spring  a nest  was  found,  hidden  most 
deftly  in  the  clover  and  plantain  leaves,  which  were 
woven  together  in  the  most  intricate  manner  so  as 
to  form  a canopy  over  the  cosey  cot.  At  one  side 
there  was  a tunnel,  some  two  feet  long,  forming  the 
only  entrance  to  the  apartment.  The  nest  proper 
was  arched  over  from  the  rear  for  fully  one  half  its 
width.  Not  ten  feet  away  was  another  lark’s  nest 
that  was  almost  wholly  exposed  to  the  light  and  air. 
In  the  lark  world  there  is  evidently  a good  deal  of 
room  for  originality.  There  seem  to  be  many  larks 
of  many  minds. 

My  quest  for  cuckoos’  nests  during  the  summer 
of  1892  was  well  rewarded,  but  I shall  stop  to 
describe  only  one  of  these  finds.  The  young  birds 
having  left,  I lifted  the  nest  from  the  swaying  branch 
on  which  it  hung,  and  examined  it.  The  founda- 
tion was  composed  of  twigs  and  sticks  intertwined 
and  plaited  together  with  some  degree  of  skill,  but 
it  was  the  lining  that  stirred  my  interest.  First,  it 
consisted  of  a number  of  dead  forest  leaves  from 
which  the  cellular  texture  had  been  completely 
stripped,  leaving  only  the  petiole,  midrib,  and  veins ; 
underneath  this  was  a more  compact  carpet  of  the 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


1 75 


same  kind  of  leaves,  of  which  the  blade,  instead  of 
being  stripped  off,  was  perforated  with  innumerable 
small  holes,  making  them  look  like  extremely  fine 
sieves.  In  some  cases  the  blades  seemed  to  be 
split,  leaving  the  veins  and  veinlets  exposed,  so  that 
one  could  trace  their  intricate  net-work.  Another 
cuckoo  nest  had  both  the  stripped  and  perforated 
leaves,  but  fewer  of  each  kind.  Whether  the  birds 
themselves  did  the  artistic  work  on  these  leaves  or 
not,  — that  is  a question.  The  stripping  of  the 
upper  layer  of  their  blades  would  allow  the  dust  and 
scaly  substance  shed  by  the  young  birds,  to  sift 
through  to  the  second  layer,  where  it  would  not 
come  in  direct  contact  with  the  nurslings.  The 
two  carpets  were  laid,  no  doubt,  in  the  interests  of 
health  and  cleanliness. 

But  it  is  time  to  turn  our  attention  to  the  children 
of  the  nursery.  The  life  of  young  birds  in  the  nest, 
— what  a field  for  study  ! One  thing  they  learn 
very  early,  probably  almost  as  soon  as  they  emerge 
from  the  shell ; that  is,  to  open  their  mouths  for 
food.  No  tutor  or  professor  needed  for  that ! Most 
young  birds  soon  become  quite  clamorous  for  their 
rations.  Lowell  must  have  looked  into  more  than 
one  bird  nursery,  or  he  scarcely  would  have  thought 
of  writing  the  lines,  — 

“ Blind  nestlings,  unafraid, 

Stretch  up,  wide-mouthed,  to  every  shade 
By  which  their  downy  dream  is  stirred, 

Taking  it  for  the  mother-bird.” 

A nestful  of  half-callow  younglings,  standing  on 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


176 

tiptoe,  craning  up  their  necks,  wabbling  from  side 
to  side,  opening  their  mouths  to  the  widest  extent 
of  their  “gapes,”  knocking  heads  and  beaks  to- 
gether, and  chirping  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  — I 
confess  it  makes  a picture  more  grotesque  than 
attractive.  By  and  by,  as  the  pin-feathers  begin  to 
grow,  the  infant  brood  seem  to  feel  an  itching  sen- 
sation, which  causes  them  to  pick  the  various  parts 
of  their  bodies  to  remove  the  scaly  substance  that 
gathers  on  the  skin  and  at  the  bases  of  the  sprout- 
ing feathers.  But  how  awkwardly  they  go  about 
this  exercise  1 Their  heads  seem  to  be  too  heavy 
for  their  long,  slender  necks,  and  go  waggling  and 
rolling  from  side  to  side,  often  missing  the  mark 
aimed  at.  However,  the  muscles  of  the  nurslings 
are  developing  all  the  while.  Soon  they  lift  them- 
selves to  their  full  height,  stretch  themselves,  jerk 
their  tails  higher  than  their  heads  in  a most  amusing 
way  (you  smile,  but  they  don’t),  and  then  squat 
down  upon  the  floor  of  the  nest  again.  A day  or  so 
later  the  most  advanced  youngster  feels  the  flying 
impulse  stirring  in  his  veins,  and  so,  after  stretching 
himself  as  previously  described,  he  extends  his  wings 
to  their  utmost  reach,  and  flaps  them  in  a joyous 
way  over  his  cuddling  companions,  sometimes  rap- 
ping them  smartly  on  the  head.  Soon  there  comes 
a day  when  he  hops  to  the  edge  of  the  nest,  looks 
• out  upon  the  wide,  beckoning  world  like  a young 
satrap,  and  flaps  his  wings  with  a semi-conscious 
feeling  of  strength.  Ere  long,  encouraged  by  his 
parents,  he  spreads  his  wings,  and  takes  a header 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


177 


for  the  nearest  twig.  Why,  his  wings  will  bear  him 
up  on  the  buoyant  air  ! He  has  graduated  from 
the  nursery  and  the  grammar  grade  into  the  high 
school. 

Every  year  has  its  eccentricities,  so  to  speak ; 
that  is,  the  character  of  the  weather  and  other 
modifying  causes  afford  the  faunal  life  an  occasion 
for  a development  that  is  peculiar.  Thus  the 
observations  made  by  the  naturalist  one  year  are  not 
necessarily  mere  repetitions  of  those  made  other 
years.  Nature  is  not  often  guilty  of  tautology.  I 
yield  therefore  to  the  temptation  to  add  a few 
chronicles  made  during  the  spring  of  1893,  which, 
I hope,  will  not  destroy  the  unity  of  this  article  on 
bird  nurseries.  One  day  in  June,  while  strolling 
through  the  woods,  I heard  the  song  of  a red-eyed 
vireo.  It  was  a kind  of  talking  song,  or  recitative, 
as  if  the  bird  were  discoursing  on  some  favorite 
theme,  and  improvising  his  music  as  he  went.  His 
voice  was  so  loud  and  clear  that  I could  hear  it  far 
away,  drifting  through  the  green,  embowered  aisles 
of  the  woods.  This  vigorous  chanson  was  a surprise, 
for  I have  never  before  known  this  vireo  to  remain 
in  my  neighborhood  during  the  summer.  He  mostly 
hies  farther  north.  But  a still  greater  surprise  lay 
in  ambush  for  me  a few  days  later,  in  one  of  my 
rambles  through  the  woods.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
light  flutter  of  wings  near  my  head,  and  there  hung 
a tiny  nest  on  the  low,  swaying  branches  of  a 
sapling. 

That  it  was  a vireo’s  nest  was  evident,  for  it  was 


12 


i78 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


fastened  to  the  twigs  by  the  rim,  without  any  support 
below,  swinging  there  like  a dainty  basket.  Pres- 
ently I got  my  glass  on  the  bird  herself,  and  found  her 
to  be  a red-eyed  vireo.  That  was  my  first  nest  of  this 
species,  and  proud  enough  I was  of  the  discovery. 
The  outside  of  the  little  cot  was  prettily  ornamented 
with  tufts  of  spider-webs.  As  usual  with  this  bird,  a 
piece  of  white  paper  was  wrought  into  the  lower 
part  of  the  nest.  Three  vireo’s  eggs  and  one  cow- 
bunting’s lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  cup. 

Every  few  days  I called  on  the  bird,  going  close 
enough  only  to  see  her  plainly,  without  driving  her 
off  the  nest.  She  made  a pretty  picture  sitting 
there,  one  fit  for  an  artist’s  brush,  with  her  head 
and  tail  pointing  almost  straight  up,  her  body  grace- 
fully curved  to  fit  the  deep  little  basket,  and  her 
eyes  growing  large  and  wild  at  her  visitor’s  approach. 
At  length,  one  day,  I felt  sure  there  must  be  little 
ones  in  the  nest,  and  so  I went  very  close  to  her ; 
yet  she  did  not  fly.  Then  I moved  my  hand  toward 
her,  and  finally  touched  her  back  before  she  flitted 
away.  A featherless  cow-bunting  lay  in  the  ham- 
mock, but  the  vireo’s  eggs  were  not  yet  hatched. 
A few  days  later  the  nest  was  robbed.  Some  heart- 
less villain,  probably  a blue  jay,  had  destroyed  all 
the  children.  I could  have  wept,  so  keen  was  my 
sense  of  bereavement. 

The  cow-buntings  imposed  a great  deal  on  other 
kind-hearted  bird  parents  that  spring.  Almost  every 
nest  contained  one  or  two  of  this  interloper’s  eggs, 
and,  as  if  Nature  abetted  the  designs  of  the  parasite, 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


1 79 


these  eggs  were  almost  always  hatched  first.  One 
wood-thrush’s  nest  contained  two  bunting  and  three 
thrush  eggs.  As  soon  as  the  bantlings  had  broken 
from  the  shell,  the  buntings  could  be  readily  dis- 
tinguished from  the  thrushes,  for  the  former  feath- 
ered much  more  rapidly  than  the  latter.  When  the 
youngsters  were  about  half  grown,  they  crowded  one 
another  considerably  in  their  adobe  apartment,  but, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  they  lived  together  in 
beautiful  domestic  harmony.  At  all  events,  no  un- 
seemly family  wrangles  came  under  my  eye.  By 
and  by,  on  one  of  my  visits,  I found  that  the  bunt- 
ings had  left  the  maternal  roof  (to  speak  with  a 
good  deal  of  poetic  license),  while  the  thrush  trio 
still  sat  contentedly  on  the  nest,  and  did  not  display 
any  fear  when  I caressingly  stroked  their  brown 
backs,  but  looked  up  at  me  in  a native , confiding 
way  that  was  very  gratifying.  Quite  different  was 
the  conduct  of  the  inmates  of  a bush-sparrow’s  nest, 
hidden  in  the  grass  at  the  woodland’s  border.  The 
baby  sparrows  rushed  pell-mell  from  their  pretty 
homestead  when  I came  near,  leaving  a bunting, 
which  had  been  hatched  and  reared  with  them, 
alone  in  the  nest.  He  was  not  nearly  so  far 
developed  as  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  had  no 
intention  of  being  driven  from  home. 

But  here  is  an  instance  more  like  that  of  the 
bunting- wood-thrush  episode  just  described.  A pretty 
basket,  woven  of  fine  fibrous  material,  swung  from 
the  lower  branches  of  an  apple-tree  in  the  orchard 
of  one  of  my  farmer  friends,  and  contained  three 


i8o 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


young  orchard  orioles  and  one  cow-bunting.  One 
day  I procured  a step-ladder  and  climbed  up  to  the 
nest,  when  the  bunting  sprang  out  with  a wild  cry 
and  toppled  to  the  ground,  while  the  young  orioles, 
not  yet  half-fledged,  merely  pried  open  their  mouths 
for  food.  Yet  these  birds,  when  grown,  are  fully  as 
dexterous  on  the  wing  as  their  foster  relatives,  the 
buntings. 

During  the  same  spring  some  observations  on 
youthful  blackbirds  were  made.  They  may  be  of 
sufficient  interest  to  register  in  this  place.  Did  you 
know  that  a part  of  the  heads  of  infant  blackbirds 
remains  bare  a week  or  two  after  the  other  por- 
tions of  their  bodies  are  well  feathered?  This  is 
true  of  the  three  species  of  my  acquaintance,  — 
the  purple  grackles,  the  red-winged  blackbirds,  and 
the  cow-buntings.  The  bald  portion  includes  the 
forehead,  part  of  the  crown,  the  chin,  and  throat, 
and  extends  behind  and  below  the  ears,  which  are 
covered  with  a tiny  tuft  of  fuzz.  Had  this  unfeathered 
portion  been  red  instead  of  black,  the  youngsters 
would  have  looked  quite  like  diminutive  turkey- 
buzzards.  One  may  be  pardoned  for  being  some- 
what puzzled  over  the  childish  conundrum,  Why 
young  blackbirds,  of  all  the  birds  in  the  circle  of 
one’s  acquaintance,  must  go  bareheaded  during  the 
first  few  weeks  of  their  life.  By  and  by,  however, 
the  feathers  grow  out  on  this  space  as  thickly  as  on 
the  remainder  of  their  bodies. 

Strange  that  I have  found  so  few  black-capped 
titmice’s  nests,  familiar  and  abundant  as  they  are 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


181 


in  my  neighborhood,  both  summer  and  winter ; but 
my  quest  was  rewarded  in  two  instances  during  the 
spring  of  1893,  — the  first  nest  being  in  the  top  of 
a truncated  sassafras-tree.  The  snag  was  perhaps 
twenty  feet  high.  On  one  of  my  visits  the  birds 
were  hollowing  out  their  little  apartment.  They 
would  dart  into  the  narrow  opening,  and  presently 
emerge,  carrying  small  fragments  of  partly  decayed 
wood  in  their  beaks  and  dropping  them  to  the 
ground.  Some  weeks  later,  I climbed  the  tree  (with 
much  fear  and  trembling,  be  it  said),  but  the  birds 
had  made  the  cavity  so  deep  that  I could  not  see 
the  bottom,  and  break  open  their  sylvan  nursery  I 
would  not.  The  second  titmouse  nest  was  in  a 
very  slender  branch  of  a sassafras-tree,  — so  slender, 
indeed,  that  it  was  a wonder  the  birds  were  able  to 
make  a hollow  in  it.  At  first  it  looked  precisely 
like  a black  patch  burned  on  the  bough’s  surface. 
When  one  of  the  feathered  atoms  stood  in  the  tiny 
doorway  and  looked  out,  she  made  a pretty  picture, 
— one  that  would  have  put  a throb  of  joy  into  an 
artist’s  bosom. 

Yet  there  is  another  picture  that  I should  prefer 
to  have  painted,  not  on  account  of  its  attractiveness, 
but  on  account  of  its  quaintness ; it  was  the  nest, 
eggs,  and  young  of  a pair  of  green  herons  in  an 
orchard.  The  nest  was  built  high  in  an  apple-tree, 
and  was  only  a loose  platform  of  sticks.  Although 
anything  but  an  expert  climber,  I contrived  to  scale 
that  tree  three  times  to  satisfy  my  curiosity.  The 
first  time  there  were  four  eggs  of  a greenish-blue 


182 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


cast  — not  jewels  by  any  means — in  the  nest.  On 
my  second  visit  four  of  the  oddest  birdlings  I ever 
looked  upon  greeted  me  with  wide-open  eyes  and 
mouths.  They  were  covered  with  light  yellowish 
down,  and  the  space  about  the  eyes  was  of  a 
greenish  hue,  — one  of  the  characteristic  markings 
of  the  adult  birds.  When  they  opened  their  mouths, 
expecting  to  be  fed,  their  throats  puffed  out  some- 
what like  the  throats  of  croaking  frogs,  making  a 
good-sized  pocket  inside  to  receive  chunks  of  food. 
The  thought  struck  me  that  perhaps  the  pocket  was 
designed  as  a sort  of  temporary  storage  place  for 
victuals  until  the  nestling  was  ready  to  swallow  them. 
The  birds  made  a low,  quaint  noise  that  cannot  be 
represented  phonetically.  Indeed,  the  picture  they 
made  was  slightly  uncanny,  so  I did  not  linger  about 
it  overlong. 

A week  later  my  third  and  last  call  on  the  heron 
household  was  made.  What  an  odd  spectacle  it 
presented  ! The  young  birds  had  grown  wonder- 
fully, though  still  covered  with  down,  with  very  little 
sign  of  feathers.  As  my  head  appeared  above  the 
rim  of  the  nest,  they  slowly  craned  up  their  India- 
rubber  necks,  then  rose  on  their  stilt-like  legs,  and 
looked  at  me  with  wondering,  wide-open  eyes  that 
gleamed  almost  like  gold.  The  spectacle  made  me 
think  of  ghouls,  incongruous  as  the  simile  may  seem. 
When  I touched  one  of  the  birds,  it  huddled, 
half-alarmed,  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  nest.  An- 
other slyly  stalked  off  to  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
upon  a thick  clump  of  twigs  and  leaves,  eying  me 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  183 

keenly  as  he  moved  away.  I hurriedly  climbed 
down,  lest  he  should  topple  to  the  ground  and  dash 
himself  to  death  ; and  -thus,  while  I was  on  the  brink 
of  causing  a tragedy,  yet,  as  a sort  of  emollient  to 
my  conscience,  I consoled  myself  with  the  thought 
that  I had  really  prevented  one. 

Another  interesting  discovery  of  the  same  spring 
was  a killdeer  plover’s  nest,  which  my  farmer  friend 
across-lots  found  in  a clover-field.  There  had  been 
a heavy  rainfall,  making  the  ploughed  ground  as  soft 
as  mush ; but  my  tall  rubber  boots  were  mud-proof, 
and  so  I went  to  pay  the  plovers  my  respects.  This 
was  after  six  o’clock  in  the  evening.  I found  one 
little  bird  in  the  shallow,  pebble-lined  nest,  and 
three  eggs,  one  of  them  slightly  broken  at  the  larger 
end.  The  plover  nestling  was  an  odd  baby,  with 
its  large  head,  fluffy,  square-shouldered  body,  and 
slender  beak  sticking  straight  out.  A small  piece  of 
the  egg-shell  still  clung  to  its  back.  On  taking  the 
tiny  thing  into  my  hand,  what  was  this  I saw?  It 
had  only  three  toes  on  each  foot,  instead  of  four,  as 
most  birds  have  ; and  those  three  were  all  fore  toes, 
while  the  bird  had  no  hind  toe  at  all.  Why  the 
plover  should  have  no  hind  toe  is  an  enigma ; but 
then,  the  ostrich  has  none,  either,  and  only  two  in 
front,  — “ every  species  after  its  kind.” 

Early  the  next  morning  two  more  youngsters  had 
broken  shell,  and  come  forth  to  keep  their  more 
precocious  brother  company.  The  eldest  was  marked 
quite  distinctly  about  the  head  and  neck  like  its 
parents,  having  the  characteristic  white  and  black 


184 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


bands,  thus  early  proclaiming  the  persistence  of  its 
type.  When  I set  it  down  — for  I had  lifted  it  in 
my  hand  — it  started  to  run  over  the  soft  ground, 
enhancing  its  speed  by  flapping  its  tiny  wings.  The 
picture  was  indescribably  cunning.  The  bird  was  so 
small  that  it  looked  like  a downy  dot  scudding  over 
the  undulations  of  the  ground.  Think  of  a baby 
only  about  fifteen  hours  old  running  away  from 
home  in  that  manner  ! I caught  the  infantile  scape- 
grace and  placed  it  back  in  its  cradle,  where  it 
remained.  During  the  night  there  had  been  a very 
heavy  fall  of  rain,  and  yet  these  youngsters,  small  as 
they  were,  had  not  been  drowned,  having  doubtless 
been  covered  by  their  parents.  At  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening  they  had  all  left  the  nest,  and,  search  as 
I would,  I could  find  no  clew  to  their  whereabouts, 
though  the  parent  birds  were  flying  and  scuttling 
about  with  loud  cries  of  warning  to  me  to  keep  my 
distance.  Thus  it  would  seem  that  young  plovers, 
like  young  partridges,  grouse,  and  ducks,  leave  the 
nest  at  a very  tender  age. 

Before  closing,  I must  mention  something  odd 
that  befell  a kingfisher’s  nest.  A year  prior  I had 
found  a nest  in  a high  bank  in  a sloping  field,  where 
the  water  had  washed  out  a deep  gully.  In  passing 
the  bank  one  day  I noticed  that  it  had  been  partly 
broken  down  ; there  had  been  a landslide  on  a small 
scale,  caused  by  the  washing  of  the  heavy  spring 
rains.  Half  way  to  the  top,  on  a narrow  shelf,  lay  a 
clutch  of  kingfisher’s  eggs,  some  of  them  broken  by 
the  caving  of  the  bank.  The  landslide  had  occurred 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


^5 

after  the  cavity  had  been  made  and  the  eggs  de- 
posited, thus  blasting  the  hopes  of  the  kingfishers. 
However,  they  had  not  become  despondent,  for, 
later  in  the  season,  they  burrowed  a hole  for  an 
underground  nursery  in  another  part  of  the  bank. 


III. 

BIRD  HIGH  SCHOOLS. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  there  is  a regularly 
graded  system  of  instruction  in  the  school-life  of 
the  birds.  There  may  be  method  in  their  learning, 
but  it  would  be  difficult  to  state  positively  just  where 
the  primary,  grammar,  high-school,  and  college  grades 
merge  into  one  another,  or  when  diplomas  of  effi- 
ciency are  granted,  if  granted  at  all.  But  that  there 
is  something  of  a system  of  pedagogy  among  birds, 
and  that  the  juniors  do  receive  instruction  from  their 
seniors,  no  observer  of  feathered  life  can  doubt  for 
a moment.  In  the  systems  of  human  instruction 
the  child-life  of  the  young  learner  usually  ends  with 
his  high-school  course  ; he  then  stands  at  the  thresh- 
old of  young  manhood,  ready  to  do  a good  deal  of 
wrestling  with  his  problems  on  his  own  account. 
Taking  that  fact  as  our  cue,  we  should  say  that  the 
high-school  instruction  of  the  youthful  bird  begins 
when  he  leaves  the  nest,  and  ends  when  he  is  able 
to  fly  with  dexterity,  and  provide  for  his  own  sup- 
port, at  least  in  the  main.  It  is  not  probable  that 
the  lecture  system  prevails  in  the  bird  community, 


i86 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


or  the  method  of  class  instruction  now  in  vogue,  or 
that  books  and  charts  and  blackboards  are  used  ; 
but  the  instruction  is  chiefly  individual,  and  is  carried 
on  mostly  by  example,  coercion,  and  urgent  appeal. 
There  is  not  an  inexhaustible  number  of  branches 
to  be  pursued  by  the  little  undergraduates  in  plumes  ; 
but  their  efforts  at  obtaining  an  education  consist 
chiefly  in  mastering  three  grand  accomplishments, 
— flying,  feeding,  and  singing. 

If  ever  you  have  seen  a bevy  of  young  red-headed 
woodpeckers,  led  by  several  of  their  elders,  taking 
their  wing-exercises,  choosing  a certain  tree  in  the 
woods  for  a point  of  departure,  and  then  sailing 
around  and  around  with  loud  cries  of  delight,  you 
must  have  concluded  that  it  was  a veritable  class  in 
calisthenics.  One  seldom  has  an  opportunity  to 
see  young  birds  taking  their  first  lessons  in  flight, 
but  it  is  worth  one’s  time  and  patience  to  be  present 
at  such  a recitation.  The  parents  set  the  example 
by  flying  from  the  nest  to  a perch  near  by,  and  then 
coax  and  scold  their  children  to  follow  their  ex- 
ample. If  the  little  learners  hesitate,  as  they  usually 
do,  their  impatient  teachers  exclaim  : “ Why,  just  try  it 
once.  You  never  will  learn  to  fly  any  younger.  If 
you  will  only  spread  your  wings,  let  go  of  the  rim 
of  the  nest,  and  venture  out  on  the  air,  you  will  find 
that  it  will  bear  you  up.  Don’t  be  afraid.”  But 
perhaps  the  pupils  complain  that  it  makes  their 
heads  dizzy  to  look  down  from  their  awful  height. 
Then  the  teachers  pooh-pooh  at  their  fears,  and  cry 
condescendingly,  C(  The  idea  of  being  afraid  ! Why, 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  187 

just  see  here  ! ” and  they  mount  up  into  the  air, 
poise,  careen,  and  perform  other  extraordinary  feats, 
while  the  youngsters  gaze  at  them  in  wide-eyed 
wonder.  At  last,  after  much  persuasion  and  many 
half-attempts,  one  of  the  youngsters  spreads  his 
pinions  and  flutters  laboriously  until  he  scrambles 
upon  the  nearest  twig,  with  bated  breath  and  throb- 
bing pulses.  He  is  frightened  half  to  death,  but  he 
has  found  that  the  friendly  air  will  support  him  if  he 
makes  proper  use  of  his  wings,  and  so  he  will  soon 
make  another  effort,  and  another,  until  he  begins 
really  to  enjoy  the  exercise.  However,  several  days 
may  elapse  before  the  youngest  and  weakest  member 
of  the  class  can  muster  sufficient  courage  to  take  his 
first  aerial  journey. 

Some  species  of  birds  graduate  from  the  nest 
much  sooner  than  others.  In  one  case  I observed 
that  a family  of  goldfinches  remained  in  the  nest 
just  seven  days  after  a family  of  bush-sparrows, 
hatched  on  the  same  day,  had  taken  their  flight.1 
The  yellow-billed  cuckoo  has  given  me  no  little 
surprise  in  this  respect.  When  he  first  creeps  out 
of  his  shell  apartment,  he  is  a callow,  ungainly  in- 
fant, black  as  coal,  with  a sparse  covering  of  stiff 
bristles ; but  almost  before  a week  has  passed,  he 
has  hopped  from  his  washed-out  cradle  to  try  the 
realities  of  the  great  world  around  him.  Why  the 
agile  little  goldfinch  should  remain  in  the  crib  so 
much  longer  than  his  less  dexterous  fellow-pupil, 

1 This  episode  is  referred  to  in  the  chapter  on  “Nest* 
Hunting.” 


i88 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


the  cuckoo,  is  a problem  of  bird  school-life  that 
I must  leave  for  solution  to  wiser  heads. 

Having  gone  from  the  nest,  the  young  bird  has 
not  yet  learned  all  about  the  art  of  flying;  no, 
indeed ! He  must  become  perfect  by  practice. 
Many  a blunder  will  he  make.  At  first  he  can- 
not always  nicely  calculate  the  distance  to  the  twig 
that  he  has  in  view,  and  so  he  fails  to  give  himself 
the  proper  propulsive  force ; he  misses  his  footing 
by  going  too  far,  or  not  far  enough,  and  then  where 
he  will  alight  is  a question  of  what  he  happens  to 
strike  first.  Probably  a wild,  desperate  scramble  will 
ensue,  which  ends  only  when  the  youthful  novice  has 
fallen  plump  upon  the  ground.  He  may  be  very 
much  alarmed ; but  as  soon  as  he  recovers  his 
breath,  his  courage  rises,  and  he  tries  again. 

Although  the  young  birds  have  the  whole  world 
for  their  larder,  with  victuals  just  to  their  taste 
constantly  at  their  elbow,  they  must  learn  even  the 
art  of  eating,  and,  until  they  do  so,  they  demand  that 
their  parents  be  their  caterers.  For  several  weeks 
after  they  have  passed  the  first  term  of  school-life, 
they  will  still  sit  on  a limb,  open  their  mouths, 
twinkle  their  wings,  and  allow  their  patient  victual- 
lers to  thrust  morsel  after  morsel  down  their 
throats.  My  opinion  is  that  the  patience  of  their 
parents  wears  out  after  a time,  and  they  leave 
the  overgrown  youngster  to  paddle  for  himself. 
How  proud  he  must  be  of  the  exploit  when  he 
catches  his  first  insect  and  successfully  stows  it  away 
in  his  maw  ! In  a deep,  quiet  glen  I watched  a 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


189 


family  of  young  phoebes  and  their  parents  catching 
insects  on  the  wing.  It  was  amusing.  The  old 
birds  evidently  felt  that  it  was  about  time  for  their 
pupils  to  learn  to  provide  their  own  victuals,  but 
the  youngsters  stoutly  demanded  that  their  lunch- 
eons be  brought  them  in  the  accustomed  manner. 
They  must  have  noticed  that  the  old  birds  would 
occasionally  catch  an  insect  and  dispose  of  it  them- 
selves. Once  when  the  parent  bird  darted  out  for 
a small  cabbage  butterfly,  a young  fellow  swooped 
down  at  her  with  such  force  that  she  let  the  insect 
squirm  out  of  her  bill  and  flutter  to  the  ground, 
and  thus  make  good  its  escape  before  she  could  re- 
cover it.  Both  birds  lost  their  dinner  through  the 
greed  and  rashness  of  the  little  gourmand.  Another 
time  an  old  bird  caught  a yellow  butterfly,  dashed 
to  a limb,  and  quickly  gulped  it  down,  wings  and  all, 
before  any  of  the  presumptuous  high- schoolers  could 
reach  him.  The  bearing  of  the  bird  was  most 
laughable.  Finally,  several  of  the  young  birds  darted 
out  into  the  air  for  passing  insects,  proving  that  they 
were  taking  lessons  in  that  fine  art ; but  their  gym- 
nastics were  far  from  perfect,  and  they  hit  the  mark 
scarcely  half  the  time. 

With  most  young  birds  music  is  a part  of  their 
high-school  curriculum.  Perhaps  you  have  thought 
that  they  learn  their  lessons  in  vocal  music  without 
special  instruction,  but  this  is  not  always  the  case. 
Observation  proves  that  the  old  birds  have  them 
under  tutelage,  setting  them  lyrical  copies,  which 
they  are  expected  to  learn  by  frequent  rehearsal. 


190 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


I have  myself  observed  such  a performance  in  the 
case  of  the  wood-pewee,  as  described  in  the  chapter 
on  “ Midsummer  Melodies.”  First  attempts  are 
crude  and  awkward,  although  the  tones  may  be  very 
fine.  It  requires  frequent  drill  to  bring  the  vocal 
organs  under  perfect  control,  just  as  is  the  case  with 
human  singers.  If  you  have  listened  to  the  squeak- 
ing, chattering,  twittering  medley  of  young  song- 
sparrows,  you  have  realized  how  much  practice 
is  necessary  before  the  would-be  vocalists  will  be 
able  to  execute  the  wonderful  trills  of  which  they 
are  master  when  they  graduate  from  the  musical 
conservatory. 

I must  tell  you  of  a little  bird  high-school  class 
over  which  I once  assumed  charge.  It  consisted 
of  three  wood-thrushes,  two  bluebirds,  and  a 
brown  thrasher,  all  of  which  were  taken  from  the 
nest  before  they  were  ready  to  fly,  and  confined  in 
a large  wire  cage.  Very  soon  they  learned  to  take 
food  from  my  hand.  But  in  many  things  that  are 
essential  to  bird  life  and  bird  weal  they  had  no 
tutors  and  no  drill -masters,  and  therefore  had  to 
learn  them  as  best  they  could.  Yet  it  was  surpris- 
ing how  soon  they  gained  proficiency.  Without  a 
single  copy  from  adult  birds,  all  of  them  were  able 
to  fly  about  from  perch  to  perch  in  a few  days.  It 
was  not  more  than  a week  before  they  began  to  pick 
in  an  awkward  way,  but  after  more  than  five  weeks 
they  would  still  open  their  mouths  and  take  food 
from  the  hand.  The  mechanical  act  of  eating  was 
something  they  had  to  learn  by  slow  degrees.  While 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE.  191 

they  could  readily  pick  up  a tidbit,  it  seemed  to 
be  a difficult  task  to  get  it  back  far  enough  into  the 
mouth  to  swallow  it.  This  was  especially  true  of 
the  thrasher,  whose  bill  was  long.  How  he  would 
toss  a morsel  about,  pinch  it,  fling  it  away,  catch  it 
up  again,  and  pound  it  against  a perch,  before  he 
could  work  it  back  into  his  capacious  throat ! 

They  were  amusing  pets,  those  feathered  pupils 
of  mine.  From  them  I have  gained  an  insight  into 
bird  character  which  could  have  been  gained  in  no 
other  way.  The  difficulty  in  observing  birds  in  the 
wild  state  is,  you  cannot  study  them  at  close  range, 
and  hence  cannot  watch  their  development  from 
day  to  day.  None  the  less  interesting  were  my 
little  pupils  because  they  had  to  depend  on  their 
own  wits  and  learn  their  lessons  without  a pedagogue. 
How  did  they  learn  to  bathe  without  being  shown 
how  ! They  learned  it,  that  is  sure  ; and  they  went 
through  the  exercise  precisely  as  birds  do  in  the  wild- 
wood.  They  would  leap  into  the  bath-dish,  duck 
their  heads  into  the  water,  flutter  their  wings  and 
tails  until  thoroughly  rinsed,  and  then  fly  up  to  a 
perch  to  preen  their  bedrenched  plumage.  But  they 
made  some  mirth-provoking  blunders.  One  day  a 
wood-thrush  got  astride  of  the  rim  of  his  bath-tub,  one 
leg  outside  and  the  other  inside,  and  in  that  interest- 
ing position  tried  to  take  his  ablution.  He  looked 
exceedingly  droll,  and  seemingly  could  not  under- 
stand why  he  did  not  succeed  better.  Another  time 
the  thrasher  remained  outside  of  the  bath-dish,  and 
thrust  his  head  over  the  rim  into  the  water,  squat- 


192 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


ting  on  the  sand  and  twinkling  his  pinions.  But  the 
time  came  when  all  the  birds  discovered  of  their 
own  accord  that  the  proper  way  was  to  leap  right 
into  the  lavatory. 

How  early  in  life  do  juvenile  birds  begin  to  sing? 
That  is  a question,  I venture  to  say,  that  very  few 
students  of  bird  life  would  be  able  to  answer.  It 
may  be  difficult  to  believe  — if  my  own  ears  had 
not  heard,  I should  be  very  skeptical  of  the  accuracy 
of  the  assertion  — but  my  wood-thrushes  had  not 
been  in  my  care  more  than  three  or  four  weeks 
before  one  of  them  began  to  twitter  a little  song. 
He  could  not  have  been  much  more  than  five  weeks 
old.  This  is  all  the  more  remarkable  when  it  is 
remembered  that  there  were  no  adult  thrushes  within 
a half-mile  of  the  house.  He  seemed  to  discover 
that  he  had  a voice,  and  thought  he  might  as  well 
use  it. 

Ah,  yes,  and  sad  to  relate,  my  high-school  pupils 
soon  learned  to  quarrel,  and  that  without  the 
example  of  their  elders.  When  I threw  a billsome 
morsel  on  the  floor  of  the  cage,  several  of  them 
would  make  a dive  for  it,  and  soon  get  into  a 
wrangle.  “ It ’s  mine  ! it ’s  mine  ! ” each  would 
proclaim  by  his  greedy  behavior.  Then  perhaps 
two  would  seize  it,  and  tug  at  it  like  boys  fighting  for 
an  apple.  Or  if  one  contrived  to  get  it  first,  the  rest 
would  try  to  wrench  it  from  his  beak,  and  thus 
they  would  pursue  one  another  about  in  a wild  chase. 
The  thrasher,  being  younger  than  his  fellows,  was 
for  a time  cheated  out  of  every  choice  morsel  he 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


193 


secured ; but  he  finally  learned  to  help  himself  and 
swallow  his  victuals  instanter.  Two  of  the  thrushes, 
probably  males,  seemed  to  have  a mutual  grudge. 
They  would  pursue  each  other  until  the  fugitive 
would  turn  and  stand  at  bay,  snapping  his  mandi- 
bles in  a savage  manner,  as  if  they  were  worked  by 
steel  springs.  I regret  being  compelled  to  publish 
these  pugnacious  tendencies  in  my  beloved  pets ; but 
I prefer  giving  a realistic  rather  than  a fictitious  or 
roseate  sketch  of  the  school-days  of  these  pupils  in 
plumes. 


IV. 

BIRD  WORK. 

<(  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest,”  might  be  just  as 
truly  said  of  “ our  little  brothers  of  the  air”  as  of 
us,  their  big  brothers  of  the  soil.  If  you  think  that 
their  whole  career  consists  of  nothing  but  play  and 
song  and  bounding  joy,  you  have  seen  very  little 
of  the  bird  life  around  you.  For  the  mother  bird,  at 
least,  the  whole  period  of  nesting,  sometimes  extend- 
ing over  several  months,  is  a time  of  drudgery, 
anxiety,  and,  far  too  often,  of  disappointed  hopes. 
I have  heard  a bird  mother’s  wail  that  went  like 
iron  into  my  soul,  and  told  me  all  too  plainly  that 
it  had  come  from  a bereft  and  broken  heart.  When 
we  remember  how  many  tragedies  occur  in  the 
feathered  community,  we  scarcely  care  about  sing- 
ing, “ I wish  I were  a little  bird.”  Had  you 
witnessed  the  unutterable  agony  of  a pair  of  yellow- 


194 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


breasted  chats  one  spring,  when  their  four  pretty 
bairns  were  stolen  by  some  heartless  buccaneer,  you 
would  have  thanked  the  Pleiades,  Ursa  Major,  Ursa 
Minor,  and  all  your  other  lucky  stars,  that  you  were 
a man  or  woman  and  not  a bird. 

“ Oh  ! it  would  be  so  pleasant  to  fly  and  tilt  in 
the  air,  to  dash  from  twig  to  twig,  to  make  long 
aerial  voyages  to  foreign  countries  ! ” Do  I hear 
you  say  that?  Wait  a moment.  Have  you  ever 
thought  that  even  the  long,  bounding  flight  of  the 
swallows  and  swifts,  accomplished  apparently  with- 
out effort,  may  sometimes  become  a weariness  to 
the  flesh,  especially  when  insects  are  scarce  and 
their  maws  empty?  Then,  those  long  nocturnal 
journeys  that  birds  make  during  the  migrating  season 
may  often  tax  their  strength  to  the  utmost.  Indeed, 
if  you  will  listen  to  their  feeble  chirping,  as  they 
sweep  overhead  through  the  darkness,  you  will  often 
detect  a note  of  fatigue  running  through  it,  as  much 
as  to  say,  “ Ah,  I wish  we  were  at  our  journey’s 
end  ! ” No,  bird  life  is  not  all  roseate.  It  has  its 
humdrum  and  drudgery,  its  wear  and  tear,  its  prose 
as  well  as  its  poetry,  its  hard  realism  as  well  as  its 
romance. 

One  of  the  tasks  of  bird  life  is  the  building  of 
nests.  It  is  true,  the  birds  always  do  this  work  with 
a zest  that  makes  it  seem  half  play ; but,  after  spend- 
ing a day  in  gathering  material  and  weaving  it  into 
the  nest,  scarcely  taking  time  to  stop  for  meals,  I 
have  no  doubt  the  little  toilers  are  ready  to  retire 
when  bedtime  comes.  Have  you  ever  watched  these 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


J95 


little  artists  constructing  their  nests?  They  first  lay 
the  foundation,  which  is  usually  made  of  rather 
coarse  material,  and  is  more  or  less  loosely  woven ; 
and  then  they  proceed  to  build  the  superstructure. 
Some  birds,  like  the  robin  and  the  bluebird,  will  have 
their  mouths  full  of  material  every  time  they  come 
to  the  nest ; while  others,  such  as  the  dainty  warblers, 
will  return  with  a single  fibre.  Usually  the  bird 
leaps  into  the  cup  of  the  nest,  and  deftly  weaves  in 
the  new  material  with  its  bill ; and  then  shifts  around 
with  a quivering  motion  of  body  and  wings,  to  give 
the  structure  proper  shape  and  size.  The  nest  must 
be  made  to  fit  the  body  of  the  bird  like  a glove,  so 
that  she  may  rest  easily  in  it  during  the  long  period 
of  incubation.  The  robin  and  the  wood-thrush  bring 
mud  and  clay ; this  they  mix,  no  doubt,  with  their 
own  saliva,  which  gives  it  its  viscid  character.  The 
dainty,  blue-gray  gnat-catcher  collects  lichens  of 
various  kinds,  with  which  she  decorates  the  high 
walls  of  her  compact  little  cottage.  Does  this  tiny 
artist  sometimes  build  nests  just  for  fun  or  aesthetic 
effect  ? I watched  the  building  of  two  nests  one  spring 
that  were  never  used.  With  what  a graceful  touch 
the  feathered  dots  laid  the  lichen  bricks  in  the  walls  ! 

The  hatching  of  the  eggs  must  be  a severe  tax  on 
the  patience  of  the  mother  bird,  for  the  principal 
part  of  this  work  devolves  upon  her.  Sitting  hour 
by  hour  upon  the  nest,  looking  out  upon  the  wide 
spaces  of  air  waiting  to  be  conquered  by  her  active 
wings ; with  nothing  except  hope  to  feed  her  mind  ; 
with  not  even  a book  or  a newspaper  to  read,  — 


196 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


well,  here  is  a chance  to  let  patience  have  her  per- 
fect work.  Then  think  of  her  uneasiness  at  the 
approach  of  every  foe.  It  is  work ; it  is  not  mere 
idleness.  As  for  her  lord,  it  may  seem  only  like 
holiday  sport  to  sit  in  the  tree-top  and  sing  all  the 
livelong  day,  to  beguile  the  weary  hours  of  his  sit- 
ting mate.  But  perhaps  it  often  takes  on  the  hue 
of  work,  too,  when  singing  becomes  a duty.  Small 
wonder,  if  the  choralist’s  vocal  chords  often  become 
jaded  and  sore,  while  there  may  be  danger  of  bring- 
ing on  throat  or  lung  trouble.  Besides,  he  must 
often  carry  a dainty  morsel  to  his  spouse  when  he 
would  much  prefer  to  eat  it  himself.  Then,  he 
must  take  his  turn  on  the  nest  while  his  partner 
goes  off  for  a “ constitutional  ” to  get  the  stiffness 
out  of  her  joints,  or  gathers  a relay  of  food  and 
preens  her  ruffled  plumes. 

One  of  the  most  unpleasant  tasks  of  the  time  of 
incubation  and  brood  rearing  is  the  warding  off  of 
enemies.  And  they  are  numerous.  No  feathered 
parents  can  feel  sure  that  they  shall  be  able  to  tide 
their  little  family  safely  over  this  perilous  period. 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  plucky  wood-pewee  engag- 
ing in  a contest  with  that  highwayman  in  feathers, 
the  blue  jay?  How  he  dashes  at  the  bloodthirsty 
villain,  snapping  his  mandibles  viciously  at  every 
onset,  and  sometimes  pecking  a feather  from  his 
enemy’s  back  ! Nor  will  he  give  up  the  battle  until 
the  jay  steals  off  with  a hangdog  expression  on  his 
face.  The  little  warbling  vireo  is  no  less  game  when 
the  jay  comes  too  near  his  precincts. 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


197 


One  day  in  spring  I was  witness  to  a curious  inci- 
dent. A red-headed  woodpecker  had  been  flying 
several  times  in  and  out  of  a hole  in  a tree  where 
he  (or  she)  had  a nest.  At  length,  when  he  re- 
mained within  the  cavity  for  some  minutes,  I stepped 
to  the  tree  and  rapped  on  the  trunk  with  my  cane. 
The  bird  bolted  like  a small  cannon-ball  from  the 
orifice,  wheeled  around  the  tree  with  a swiftness 
that  the  eye  could  scarcely  follow,  and  then  dashed 
up  the  lane  to  an  orchard  a short  distance  away. 
But  he  had  only  leaped  out  of  the  frying-pan  into 
the  fire.  In  the  orchard  he  had  unconsciously  got 
too  near  a king-bird’s  nest.  The  king-bird  swooped 
toward  him,  and  alighted  on  his  back.  The  next 
moment  the  two  birds,  the  king-bird  on  the  wood- 
pecker’s back,  went  racing  across  the  meadow  like 
a streak  of  zigzag  lightning,  making  a clatter  that 
frightened  every  echo  from  its  hiding-place.  That 
gamy  flycatcher  actually  clung  to  the  woodpecker’s 
back  until  he  reached  the  other  end  of  the  meadow. 
I cannot  be  sure,  but  he  seemed  to  be  holding  to 
the  woodpecker’s  dorsal  feathers  with  his  bill. 
Then,  bantam  fellow  that  he  was,  he  dashed  back 
to  the  orchard  with  a loud  chippering  of  exultation. 
“ Ah,  ha  ! ” he  flung  across  to  the  blushing  wood- 
pecker ; “ stay  away  the  next  time,  if  you  don’t 
fancy  being  converted  into  a beast  of  burden  ! ” 

A large  part  of  a bird’s  toil,  after  there  are  chil- 
dren in  the  nest,  consists  in  providing  victuals  for 
them.  For  this  purpose  the  whole  country  around 
must  be  scoured,  and  sometimes  long  journeys  must 


198 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


be  made.  I have  watched  a kingfisher  flying  again 
and  again  from  a winding  creek  in  the  valley  to  her 
nest  on  a hillside  nearly  a half-mile  distant,  with  a 
minnow  in  her  bill,  while  the  sun  was  pouring  a 
sweltering  deluge  upon  the  fields.  It  kept  her  busy 
every  moment  to  supply  the  imperious  demands  of 
her  hungry  brood  in  the  bank.  A common  field- 
bird,  which  I watched  one  day  for  a long  while, 
would  often  return  to  her  nest  every  minute  with  an 
insect.  Many,  many  times  have  I obeyed  Lowell’s 
injunction,  — 

“ Come  up  and  feel  what  health  there  is 
In  the  frank  Dawn’s  delighted  eyes, 

As.  bending  with  a pitying  kiss, 

The  night-shed  tears  of  Earth  she  dries.,, 

But  even  at  that  early  hour  the  feathered  toilers 
have  always  been  ahead  of  the  human  wage-workers 
in  beginning  the  labors  of  the  day.  The  nestlings 
must  have  a twilight  breakfast ; and  then,  in  the 
evening,  as  long  as  the  gloaming  lasts,  they  noisily 
demand  just  one  more  mouthful  for  supper. 

Young  birds  are  ravenous  feeders.  They  seem 
to  live  to  eat,  and  have  no  thought  of  eating  to  live. 
For  an  hour  and  a half,  one  August  day,  I kept 
watch  of  a nestful  of  bantlings,  and  during  that 
time  the  parent  birds  were  so  shy  that  they  fed 
their  infants  only  twice.  At  last  the  little  things 
became  fairly  desperate  for  food,  springing  up  in 
the  nest  and  opening  their  mouths  with  pitiful  cries 
every  time  the  breeze  stirred  the  bushes  about  them. 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


199 


They  were  so  famished  that  I hurried  away  lest  they 
should  go  to  preying  on  one  another,  for  they  would 
sometimes  greedily  seize  one  another  by  the  bills  or 
heads,  and  try  to  gobble  one  another  down.  Inci- 
dents like  this  prove  that  the  old  birds  must  be  on 
the  jump  every  moment  to  procure  a sufficient  sup- 
ply of  food  for  their  young.  Even  after  they  have 
left  the  nest,  the  juvenile  members  of  the  family 
must  be  fed  for  several  weeks.  As  long  as  mamma 
and  papa  will  get  their  luncheons  for  them,  they  will 
make  little  effort  to  help  themselves.  I have  seen 
the  dainty  little  accentor  feeding  a great,  overgrown 
mossback  of  a cow-bunting,  which  had  to  “juke” 
down  to  her  like  a giant  to  a dwarf  to  receive  the 
morsel  she  offered  him.  What  a drudgery  it  must 
have  been  to  collect  victuals  enough  to  fill  his 
capacious  maw  ! Think  of  a toil-worn,  care-fretted 
little  mother  feeding  a strapping  boy  that  will  not 
work  ! 

Moreover,  adult  birds  often  are  kept  busy  for 
hours  supplying  their  own  craving  for  food.  One 
April  day  a hooded  warbler,  natty  little  beau,  near 
an  old  gravel-bank  in  the  woods,  was  watched  by 
me  for  an  hour  and  a half.  During  that  time  he 
must  have  caught  an  insect  almost  every  minute, 
and  sometimes  no  sooner  had  he  gulped  down  one 
than  he  made  a swift  dash  for  another.  Had  he 
not  been  so  very,  very  handsome,  I should  have 
dubbed  him  a gourmand. 

At  certain  seasons  of  the  year  what  an  active  life 
the  red-headed  woodpeckers  are  compelled  to  lead, 


200 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


in  order  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  their  stomachs  ! 
With  intervals  of  scarcely  more  than  a few  seconds, 
they  bound  out  from  a perch,  seize  an  insect  on 
the  wing,  and  wheel  back  again.  For  hours  this 
half  work,  half  frolic  is  kept  up.  By  the  way,  al- 
most all  birds  sometimes  engage  in  this  flycatcher 
game  of  taking  their  prey  on  the  wing.  The  Balti- 
more orioles,  the  bluebirds,  the  yellow-bellied  wood- 
peckers, the  crested  tits,  the  chippies,  the  indigo- 
birds,  and  even  the  white-breasted  nuthatches  and 
English  sparrows,  to  say  nothing  of  many  species  of 
warblers,  catch  insects  in  this  way. 

Many  birds  have  to  “ scratch  for  a living,’ ’ and 
that  in  a literal  sense.  There  is  the  towhee  bunt- 
ing, for  example.  Instead  of  getting  down  on  his 
breast,  however,  like  the  hen  or  the  partridge,  he 
stretches  himself  up  on  his  legs  as  if  they  were  stilts, 
and  then  bobs  up  and  down  in  an  amusing  fashion, 
while  he  scatters  leaves  and  dirt  to  side  and  rear. 
I do  not  know  whether  the  robins  scratch  or  not, 
but  they  often  jerk  the  leaves  from  the  ground  with 
their  bills,  and  hurl  them  away  with  a half-disdain- 
ful air.  Several  young  wood-thrushes  kept  in  a 
cage  removed  obstructions  in  the  same  way. 

Even  the  merry  bobolink,  the  Beau  Brummel  of 
our  meadows  and  clover-fields,  cannot  spend  every 
day 

“ Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; ” 

for  the  time  comes  when  he  must  do  the  work  of  a 
staid  husband  and  father,  and  help  to  take  care  of 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


201 


the  growing  brood.  With  all  his  pirouetting  in  the 
air,  he  carries  in  his  bosom  an  anxious  heart,  as  you 
will  quickly  see  if  you  go  too  near  his  snuggery  in 
the  grass.  The  wild  scramble  in  which  birds  of  all 
kinds  often  have  to  engage,  in  order  to  secure  a 
refractory  insect,  proves  that  there  is  ample  room 
for  the  play  of  their  best  energies.  Thus  we  see 
that  the  birds  have  plenty  to  do  besides  rollicking, 
singing,  enjoying  gala- days,  and  taking  excursions 
to  gay  watering-places.  Like  their  human  brothers 
and  sisters,  they  must  toil  patiently  on  “ through 
the  every-dayness  of  this  work-day  world.”  They, 
too,  may  have  their  literature  — unwritten,  however 
— on  the  “ dignity  of  labor.” 


V. 

BIRD  PLAY. 

How  strange  it  is  that  animals  never  laugh  ! If 
you  watch  a group  of  monkeys  playing  their  antics, 
you  will  find  their  faces  as  sedate  as  a judge’s,  save, 
perhaps,  a merry  twinkle  of  the  eye.  Comical  as 
their  gambols  are,  one  would  think  they  would  break 
into  convulsions  of  merriment.  True,  animals  have 
various  ways  of  giving  vent  to  their  exuberant  feel- 
ings, but  this  is  done  very  slightly  by  means  of  facial 
expression.  Their  risibles  must  be  meagrely  devel- 
oped. What  has  been  said  in  regard  to  animals  in 
general  is  also  true  of  birds,  whose  eyes  often 
twinkle  and  are  intensely  expressive,  but  whose 


202 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


countenances  proper  reveal  very  little  of  the  emo- 
tion swelling  in  their  breasts. 

Yet  by  the  movements  of  their  bodies  you  can 
easily  read  their  feelings.  You  can  tell  at  a glance 
by  the  conduct  of  a bird  whether  or  not  it  is  alarmed 
at  your  presence,  or  whether  it  is  engaged  in  a frolic 
or  in  watching  a wily  foe.  How  different  is  the 
behavior  of  most  birds  in  the  breeding-season,  with 
a nest  near  at  hand,  from  their  demeanor  at  other 
times  ! Look  at  that  brown  thrasher  perched  in  a 
tree-top  on  a spring  morning,  singing  his  paean  to 
the  surrounding  woodland,  and  notice  how  fearless 
he  appears.  Contrast  his  manners  two  months 
later  when  he  goes  skulking  through  the  tanglewood, 
afraid  to  be  seen.  Conceal  their  secret  as  they 
may,  an  expert  student  of  birds  can  almost  always 
tell  if  there  is  a nest  in  the  neighborhood. 

It  is,  therefore,  by  their  conduct  rather  than  by 
their  facial  expression  that  birds  reveal  their  love  of 
play.  That  they  do  have  their  frolics,  no  one  can 
doubt.  Much  of  their  time  is  occupied  in  labor, 
and  that  often  of  the  most  serious,  if  not  arduous, 
kind,  and  they  frequently  combine  toil  and  play ; 
but  there  are  times  when  they  seem  to  give  them- 
selves up  to  unmixed  sportiveness.  There  is  not 
much  system  in  their  games,  so  far  as  I have  ob- 
served. They  mostly  engage  in  frolics  of  a rough- 
and-tumble  kind,  for  the  pure  love  of  the  fun,  and 
perhaps  with  no  thought  of  winning  a prize. 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  the  company  of  red- 
headed woodpeckers  I watched  one  day  in  the 


PHASES  OP  BIRD  LIFE, 


203 


woods  were  having  a genuine  flying-race.  One  tree 
was  selected  as  a point  of  departure,  from  which 
they  would  start  and  fly  around  in  a wide  circle,  — 
perhaps  their  race-track,  — always  returning  to  the 
same  tree  with  loud  chattering,  which  sounded  like 
shouts  of  applause.  This  exercise  they  kept  up  for 
hours,  always  starting  from  the  same  tree  and  de- 
scribing nearly  the  same  circle.  If  it  was  not  a 
contest  of  speed,  I am  at  a loss  to  know  what  it 
was. 

The  woodpeckers,  especially  the  youngsters,  have 
another  game  that  has  a decidedly  human  flavor ; it 
is  the  game  of  bo-peep  among  the  trunks  and 
branches  of  trees.  A red-head  will  shy  off  from  his 
companions,  conceal  himself  somewhere  behind  a 
tree-trunk,  and  then  peep  from  his  hiding-place  in 
an  exquisitely  comical  way,  until  he  is  espied  by 
some  sharp-eyed  fellow- frolicker.  A vigorous  chase 
will  follow,  as  pursuer  and  pursued  dash  wildly  away 
among  the  trees.  Sometimes,  when  the  fugitive  is 
too  hotly  pursued,  he  will  stop  and  keep  his  com- 
panion at  bay  by  presenting  his  long,  spearlike  bill 
as  a sort  of  bayonet. 

Another  tree-climber  is  the  brown  creeper.  I 
have  described  many  of  his  pranks  in  the  first 
chapter  of  this  volume.  One  November  day  I wit- 
nessed a performance  that  beats  the  record.  Two 
creepers  were  hitching  up  the  trunks  of  the  trees  in 
their  characteristic  manner,  when  one  of  them  sud- 
denly dropped  straight  down  about  fifteen  feet, 
scarcely  more  than  an  inch  from  the  trunk  of  the 


2 04 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


tree ; then,  instead  of  alighting,  he  darted  straight 
up  again  the  same  distance,  fluttered  a moment 
uncertainly  on  the  wing,  and  then  dropped  again  to 
the  foot  of  the  tree,  where  he  alighted,  and  resumed 
his  upward  march.  But  that  was  not  all.  Presently 
his  companion,  not  to  be  outdone,  began  to  whirl 
around  and  around  the  tree,  descending  in  a spiral 
course  until  he  reached  the  foot.  There  he  tarried 
a moment  to  take  breath,  and  then,  much  to  my 
surprise,  whirled  himself  up  in  the  same  way,  a dis- 
tance of  perhaps  twenty  feet,  accomplishing  it  in 
four  or  five  revolutions.  But,  as  if  to  distance  all 
creepers’  pranks  ever  witnessed  before,  he  descended 
again  in  the  same  spiral  course.  These  perform- 
ances can  be  interpreted  only  as  ways  in  which  to 
give  vent  to  the  spirit  of  frolic  in  the  creeper 
nature. 

On  the  same  day  my  dancing  dot  in  feathers,  the 
golden-crowned  kinglet,  performed  one  of  his  favor- 
ite tricks,  which  is  not  often  described  in  the  books. 
You  will  remember  that  in  the  centre  of  the  yellow 
crown-patch  of  the  males,  there  is  a gleaming  golden 
speck,  visible  only  when  you  look  at  him  closely. 
But  when  the  little  beau  is  in  a particularly  rollick- 
some  mood,  or  wants  to  display  his  gem  to  his  mate 
or  kindred,  he  elevates  and  spreads  out  the  feathers 
of  his  crest,  and  lo  ! a transformation.  The  whole 
crown  becomes  golden  ! That  gleaming  speck  ex- 
pands until  it  completely  hides  the  yellow  and  black 
of  the  crown.  It  has  been  my  good  fortune  on 
several  occasions  to  see  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


205 


transfigure  himself  in  the  same  way,  except  that  his 
entire  crown  became  ruby.  Probably  the  little 
Chesterfield  that  can  exhibit  the  most  brilliant  coro- 
nal wins  the  sweetest  damsel  in  the  kinglet  commu- 
nity for  a wifie. 

Perhaps,  as  a rule,  our  winter  birds  find  the 
season  rather  cold  for  play ; yet  they  often  frolic  in 
the  snow  like  children,  even  when  they  do  not  stalk 
through  it  in  quest  of  food.  This  is  especially  true 
of  the  snow-birds  and  tree-sparrows.  Birds  are 
especially  fond  of  splashing  in  water.  Even  in  the 
winter-time,  when  it  flows  ice-cold  into  the  stream 
or  pond  from  the  melting  snow  on  the  banks,  certain 
birds  will  plunge  into  it,  and  enjoy  their  bath  for 
many  minutes.  They  do  not  seem  to  be  satisfied 
with  merely  wetting  their  plumes,  but  remain  in  the 
water,  twinkling  their  wings  and  tails,  much  longer 
than  is  actually  necessary.  Several  times  in  the 
autumn  I have  seen  a large  company  of  warblers  of 
different  species  taking  a bath  in  a woodland  pond. 
How  they  enjoyed  their  ablutions ! Again  and 
again  they  would  return  to  the  water,  as  if  loath  to 
quit  it. 

To  my  mind,  the  flicker  is  one  of  our  most  playful 
birds,  spite  of  his  staid  looks.  I have  seen  a half- 
dozen  of  these  birds  on  a single  tree,  scudding 
about  after  one  another  and  calling,  Zwick-ah ! 
zwick-ah ! in  their  affectionate  way.  Not  infre- 
quently two  of  them  will  face  each  other,  and  begin 
bowing  in  a vigorous  style,  turning  their  heads  dex- 
terously from  side  to  side  to  avoid  collision.  This 


20  6 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


is  sometimes  kept  up  for  several  minutes.  It  is  very 
comical,  the  only  drawback  being  that  the  birds 
themselves  do  not  laugh.  Why  they  should  engage 
in  so  ridiculous  a performance  with  so  serious  an  air, 
is  a problem  that  still  belongs  to  the  unknown. 

A cut-throat  finch,  a pet,  was,  as  a rule,  a very 
sedate  little  body,  but  one  day  he  had  to  come 
. down  from  his  pedestal  to  get  rid  of  his  surplus  of 
feeling.  This  he  did  by  dancing  a sort  of  jig  to  his 
own  music,  swaying  his  body  to  and  fro  in  a most 
laughable  way.  On  another  day  an  English  sparrow 
flew  upon  his  cage,  which  was  hanging  on  the  veranda, 
when  “ Pompey  ” turned  his  head  toward  his  visitor, 
burst  into  song,  and  bobbed  his  head  from  side  to 
side.  No  doubt  the  sparrow  felt  that  he  was  receiv- 
ing an  ovation. 

A most  laughable  incident  occurred  one  day  in 
my  large  cage  of  birds.  “ Flip,”  a fine  young  wood- 
thrush,  was  rehearsing  his  song.  A young  thrasher 
leaped  up  beside  him  on  the  perch.  The  two  birds 
turned  their  heads  to  each  other,  and  looked  into  each 
other’s  eyes  a moment ; then  Flip  opened  his  mouth 
at  his  visitor,  and  broke  into  song,  the  tones  coming 
right  out  of  his  gold-lined  throat.  All  the  while  he 
jerked  his  head  from  side  to  side  or  up  and  down  in 
perfect  time  with  his  music,  his  eye  gleaming  intelli- 
gently, as  if  he  enjoyed  the  fun.  Even  my  loud  out- 
burst of  laughter  did  not  put  a stop  to  the  little  farce. 
Flip  was  a bright  bird.  He  afterward  had  a cage 
all  to  himself,  and  regaled  his  hosts  with  many  a 
cheerful  song,  such  as  only  the  wood-thrush  is  master 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


207 


of.  Occasionally  he  would  leap  to  the  end  of  his 
cage,  open  his  mouth  wide  at  “ Brownie,”  whose 
cage  stood  next  to  his,  and  sing  a comic  song ; at 
least,  it  seemed  comic. 

These  incidents,  although  they  do  not  prove  that 
birds  have  elaborate  games,  do  prove  that  they  pos- 
sess the  play  spirit,  and  no  doubt  their  pastimes  and 
amusements  are  relished  fully  as  much  by  them  as 
ours  are  by  us;  perhaps  more  so. 


VI. 

BIRD  DEATHS. 

If  only  some  master  dramatist  could  write  the 
tragedies  of  bird  land  ! They  would  be  highly 
exciting,  and  would  afford  ample  room  for  the  play 
of  genius ; for  there  are  adventures  and  disasters 
without  number.  Perhaps  it  is  on  account  of  the 
many  reverses  that  there  is  so  often  a pensive  strain 
in  the  songs  of  the  birds,  — a minor  chord  running 
like  a shimmering  silver  line  through  the  weft  of 
the  woodland  music.  Robert  Burns,  in  his  “ Address 
to  a Woodlark,”  touched  the  very  marrow  of  bird 
sadness,  and  pleaded  with  the  little  singer  to  cease 
its  song,  or  he  himself  would  go  distracted,  — 

“ Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 

Oh ! nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  joined 
Sic  notes  o’  wae  could  wauken. 


208 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“ Thou  tells  o’  never-ending  care, 

O’  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair  ; 

For  pity’s  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair! 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken.” 

If  Coleridge  had  studied  the  birds  more  care- 
fully, and  acquainted  himself  with  their  griefs,  he 
never  would  have  written,  in  mockery  of  Milton’s 
“ L’ Allegro,”  — 

“ A melancholy  bird  ! O,  idle  thought ! 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy  ! ” 

I have  seen  a pair  of  birds  whose  little  brood  had 
just  been  cruelly  slaughtered,  and  my  heart  bled  for 
them  when  I saw  that  their  anguish  was  too  great 
for  expression.  Perhaps  birds  that  have  been  be- 
reaved soon  forget  their  sorrow,  and  yet  I doubt  it ; 
for  if  you  listen  to  the  minor  treble  of  the  black- 
capped  chickadee,  you  cannot  help  feeling  that  he  is 
singing  a dirge  for  some  long-lost  love,  or,  if  not 
that,  may  be  recounting,  by  some  occult  law  of 
heredity,  the  story  of  the  many  sorrows  of  his  ances- 
tors from  the  beginning  down  to  his  own  generation. 
What  ravishing  sadness  there  is  in  the  songs  of  the 
white-throated  and  white-crowned  sparrows  ! The 
bluebird  is  always  sighing  as  he  shifts  from  post  to 
post,  and  nothing  could  be  more  melancholy  than 
the  call  of  the  jay  in  autumn.  The  crow  at  a dis- 
tance complains  of  his  disappointment,  while  the 
wood-thrush,  in  his  evening  and  morning  voluntaries, 
rehearses  the  sad  memories  of  his  life.  Keats  speaks 
of  the  “plaintive  anthem”  of  the  nightingale,  and 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


209 


Thomson  declares  that  even  the  merry  linnets  “lit 
on  the  dead  tree,  a dull,  despondent  flock.” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  arrange  a “ table  of  mor- 
tality ” for  the  birds.  However,  as  they  know  noth- 
ing about  life  insurance,  there  is  no  call  for  such  a 
compilation ; but  even  if  the  statistician  could  state 
the  number  of  deaths,  there  is  no  arithmetic  that 
could  compute  the  heartaches  and  heartbreaks  expe- 
rienced by  “our  little  brothers  of  the  air.”  “In 
the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,”  might  well  be  put 
into  the  litany  of  the  birds.  If  they  had  burial- 
grounds,  there  would  be  plenty  of  employment  for 
the  sexton  and  some  grave  “ Old  Mortality.” 

The  elements  themselves  sometimes  play  sad  havoc 
with  the  birds.  Mr.  Eldridge  E.  Fish,  of  Buffalo, 
N.  Y.,  tells  of  an  October  storm  in  which  many 
golden-crowned  kinglets  were  dashed  to  the  ground, 
while  others  flew  against  windows  of  houses  in  which 
lights  were  left  burning.  The  storm  was  so  severe 
that  the  little  voyagers,  travelling  southward  by  night, 
were  compelled  to  alight,  and  thus  many  of  them 
were  destroyed.  The  same  writer  speaks  of  a cold 
rain  which  froze  as  it  fell,  coating  everything  with 
ice,  and  thus  cutting  off  the  birds’  supply  of  food,  so 
that  many  bluebirds  perished.  To  my  certain  know- 
ledge, robins,  which  breed  very  early  in  the  spring, 
sometimes  are  frozen  to  death  while  hugging  their 
nests,  when  a cold  wave  swoops  from  the  north. 
The  same  calamity  sometimes  overtakes  the  cross- 
bill during  the  winter  in  the  forests  of  Canada. 
Apparently  even  Nature  herself  is  not  always  a tender 
14 


210 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


mother  to  her  offspring.  Do  not  ask  me  why,  for  I 
am  not  writing  a philosophical  thesis. 

Birds  have  many  natural  enemies.  I can  still  hear 
the  cries  of  a young  bird  that  a sparrow-hawk  had 
seized  in  his  talons  and  was  bearing  overhead. 
What  a savage  cannibal  he  seemed  to  be  ! Not  for 
anything  would  I cast  undeserved  odium  on  the  re- 
putation of  any  bird,  but  I fear  very  much  that  the 
blue  jay  is  both  a robber  and  a murderer.  In  the 
season  when  eggs  and  young  birds  are  in  the  nest, 
he  has  a sly,  hang-dog  air,  which,  to  my  mind,  pro- 
claims not  only  a guilty  conscience,  but  also  a sinis- 
ter purpose.  At  other  seasons  he  seems  to  have  an 
open,  frank  manner.  It  is  true,  I myself  have  never 
seen  him  in  the  very  act  of  robbing  a fellow-bird’s 
nest,  but  I have  often  seen  pewees,  vireos,  sparrows, 
and  goldfinches  charge  upon  him  with  desperate  fury 
when  he  came  in  the  vicinity  of  their  homesteads. 
Indeed,  all  the  smaller  birds  seem  to  have  a mortal 
terror  of  him,  which  can  be  accounted  for  only  on 
the  ground  that  he  is  known  to  be  a highwayman. 

A farmer  friend,  who  loves  the  birds,  and  has  none 
of  the  unreasoning  prejudice  against  them  sometimes 
displayed  by  country  folk,  told  me  that  he  once  saw 
a blue  jay  pounce  upon  a chippie’s  nest,  snatch  up  a 
callow  bantling  in  his  bill,  and  fly  off  with  it  across 
the  field  to  his  nest.  In  a few  moments  he  returned, 
and  bore  away  another  nestling.  By  this  time  the 
farmer’s  ire  was  aroused,  and  he  got  his  gun  and  put 
an  end  to  the  feathered  brigand’s  life  on  his  return 
for  the  third  mouthful.  This  is  more  than  circum- 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


211 


stantial  evidence.  Yet  in  defence  of  the  handsome 
rascal  it  may  be  said  that  he  does  good  in  other 
directions,  for  he  rids  the  earth  of  many  pestiferous 
insects.  Gladly  would  I acquit  him  of  all  blame  if 
that  were  possible. 

Mr.  Burroughs  thinks  that  birds  which  have  suf- 
fered at  the  blue  jay’s  hands  — or,  rather,  beak  — 
often  retaliate  by  destroying  the  jay’s  eggs.  He 
found  a jay’s  nest  with  five  eggs,  every  one  of  which 
was  punctured,  apparently  by  the  sharp  bill  of  some 
bird,  with  the  sole  purpose  of  destroying  them,  for 
no  part  of  their  contents  had  been  removed.  He 
suggests  that  in  the  bird  world  the  Mosaic  law  may 
be,  “ An  egg  for  an  egg,”  instead  of  “ An  eye  for  an 
eye.” 

The  life  of  young  birds  hangs  on  a very  brittle 
thread.  A kind  of  Damocles’  sword  seems  to  be 
dangling  over  them.  What  a “ slaughter  of  inno- 
cents ” in  a single  season  ! I think  that  of  the  many 
nests  I found  during  the  spring  of  1892  fully  half 
were  raided.  How  often,  on  finding  a nest,  I have 
resolved  to  watch  it  until  the  young  birds  were  ready 
to  leave ; but  on  going  back  a few  days  later,  the 
cradle  was  rifled  of  its  treasures.  These  frequent 
“ tragedies  of  the  nests  ” make  the  bird-lover  sick  at 
heart.  It  is  no  paradox  to  say  that  many  birds  are 
killed  before  they  are  born. 

Birds  often  meet  with  fatal  accidents.  They 
sometimes  impale  themselves  on  a thorn,  or  creep 
into  places  in  thorn-trees  from  which  they  cannot 
extricate  themselves.  A robin  hung  itself  one  spring 


212 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


by  a kite-string  that  swung  in  a loop  from  the  roof 
of  my  house,  — a case  of  involuntary  suicide.  A 
nuthatch  that  I saw  one  day  in  the  woods  had  its 
leg  broken,  and  I could  not  help  thinking  of  its 
lingering  agony  before  it  would  starve  to  death.  A 
pet  nonpareil,  a dear,  bright- hued  little  fellow,  was 
well  and  happy  one  evening ; but  the  next  morn- 
ing he  lay  dead  on  the  bottom  of  the  cage,  perhaps 
the  victim  of  a convulsion.  Another  pet  nonpareil 
was  not  in  good  health  ; so  I thought  a bath  in  tepid 
water  might  be  good  for  him ; but  alas  ! the  ablu- 
tion proved  too  much  for  the  little  invalid,  which,  in 
spite  of  our  utmost  efforts  to  save  his  life,  succumbed 
to  the  inevitable.  A like  fate  befell  a young  turtle- 
dove which  a neighbor  found  in  the  woods  and 
brought  me  for  a gift. 

But  the  cause  of  a great  deal  of  mortality  among 
birds  is  man’s  inhumanity  to  them.  The  thirst  for 
blood  seems  to  be  inherent  in  many  coarse  natures, 
and  as  killing  a fellow-man  is  illegal  and  almost  sure 
to  be  summarily  punished,  many  men  gratify  their 
greed  for  gore  by  slaying  innocent  birds  and 
animals. 

“ Butchers  and  villains,  bloody  cannibals ! 

How  sweet  a plant  have  you  untimely  cropped  1 
You  have  no  children,  butchers  ! if  you  had, 

The  thought  of  them  would  have  stirred  up  remorse.,, 

The  small  boy  with  a sling  or  a spring-gun  or  an 
air-rifle  is  a source  of  much  grief  to  the  birds.  He 
even  kills  the  tiny  kinglets  that  flit  to  and  fro  in  the 
trees  bordering  our  streets,  and  seems  to  think  it 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE. 


213 


sport.  More  senseless  and  wicked  still  was  the  fash- 
ion in  vogue  a few  years  ago,  perhaps  not  yet  quite 
obsolete,  which  compelled  the  massacre  of  thousands 
of  bright-hued  birds  for  feminine  — I should  say 
unfeminine  — adornment.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
“ loudness  ” and  bad  taste  of  such  a fashion,  it  is 
extremely  unwise  to  put  birds  to  death,  for  no  one 
can  compute  the  number  of  injurious  insects  they 
annually  devour.  A bird  on  the  bonnet  means  so 
much  less  bread  on  the  table.  A bird  in  the  orchard 
is  a sort  of  scavenger  and  pomologist  combined,  and 
does  his  share  in  giving  you  a dish  of  fruit  for  dinner. 
The  scarlet  tanager  looks  like  a living  ruby  in  a 
green  tree  ; but  — I speak  bluntly  — it  looks  like  a 
chunk  of  gore  on  a woman’s  bonnet.  In  behalf  of 
good  taste  and  the  birds,  I enter  my  protest  against 
this  barbaric  custom. 

True,  birds  have  elements  of  the  Adamic  nature 
in  them.  Many  of  them  do  relish  forbidden  fruit, 
and  must  be  driven  off,  lest  they  rifle  your  cherry- 
tree  ; but  it  is  seldom  necessary  to  kill  them,  even 
then,  especially  those  that  live  wholly  on  insects  and 
fruit. 

A correspondent  once  sent  me  a number  of 
queries.  How  do  birds  come  to  their  “ last  end  ” ? 
Do  none  of  them  die  natural  deaths  ? If  they  do, 
why  do  we  never,  or  at  least  very  rarely,  find  dead 
or  dying  birds  in  the  fields  and  woods?  My  re- 
sponse to  these  questions  is  : Very  few  birds  die 
natural  deaths,  — that  is,  merely  of  sickness  or  old 
age, — though  a few  of  them  may.  When  a bird 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


2 14 

becomes  feeble  or  is  crippled,  it  falls  an  easy  prey 
to  a prowling  hawk,  owl,  shrike,  eagle,  or  cat. 
Should  a bird  escape  all  these  enemies,  and  finally 
lie  down  and  die  in  a natural  way,  it  would  doubt- 
less soon  be  found  and  devoured  by  a carrion-eating 
fowl  or  quadruped,  and  thus  its.  corpse  would  never 
be  seen  by  human  eyes.  Sad  indeed  it  is  to  think 
of  the  numberless  ways  in  which  birds  meet  “ the 
last  enemy.” 

Be  it  far  from  me  to  use  caustic  speech  against 
any  man  or  set  of  men ; but  it  makes  me  both  in- 
dignant and  sick  at  heart  to  read  the  bloody  chroni- 
cles of  most  of  the  so-called  “ collectors.”  How 
many  embryo  birds  they  slay  merely  to  gratify  their 
morbid  craze  for  gathering  “ clutches,”  as  they 
suggestively  call  a set  of  eggs  ! Not  long  ago  a col- 
lector narrated,  in  an  ornithological  journal,  the 
harrowing  story  of  his  having  rifled  the  nest  of  a 
hairy  woodpecker  five  or  six  times  in  a single  season, 
the  poor  bird  laying  a new  deposit  after  each  bur- 
glary, until  at  last  she  grew  suspicious  and  sought  a 
safer  site  for  her  nest.  The  writer  described  his 
part  of  the  performance  with  apparent  gusto,  as  if 
he  had  made  a splendid  contribution  to  science  ! 
If  he  must  have  a collection  of  hairy  woodpecker’s 
eggs,  why  not  take  a single  “ clutch,”  and  then  leave 
the  bird  to  make  her  second  deposit  and  rear  her 
brood  in  peace? 

To  my  mind,  many  “ professionals  ” shoot  a score 
of  birds  where  they  ought  to  shoot  but  one.  The 
long  record  of  slaughtered  birds  is  sickening.  The 


PHASES  OF  BIRD  LIFE . 


215 


Newgate  Calendar  scarcely  furnishes  a parallel. 
Even  our  most  scientific  journals  print  many  of 
these  bloody  annals.  It  is  true,  a reasonable  num- 
ber of  specimens  must  be  collected  for  scientific  pur- 
poses, but  surely  no  adequate  excuse  can  be  given 
for  shooting  hundreds  of  individuals  of  the  same 
species  merely  to  have  the  honor  of  saying  that  an 
astounding  number  of  specimens  were  “ taken.”  If 
the  cause  of  natural  history  cannot  be  promoted 
without  destroying  the  humane  instincts  of  the  natu- 
ralist himself,  the  price  is  too  great ; it  were  better 
left  unpaid.  A bird  in  the  bush  is  worth  forty  in 
the  hand,  especially  if  the  forty  are  dead;  worth 
more,  too,  I venture  to  add,  to  the  cause  of  science 
itself. 


2l6 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


XVI. 

THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION. 

IT  is  an  open  secret,  and  perhaps  not  a very  pro- 
found one.  I need  not  prolong  the  reader’s 
suspense,  if  mayhap  he  should  feel  any,  by  assum- 
ing a mysterious  air,  but  may  as  well  frankly  divulge 
the  secret  at  once.  There  are  times  when  melo- 
drama is  sadly  out  of  place  — if,  indeed,  it  is  ever  in 
place.  What,  then,  is  the  secret  of  appreciation? 
It  is  simply  being  en  rapport  with  the  object  or 
truth  to  be  appreciated.  No  more  patent  fact  was 
ever  declared  than  that  which  Saint  Paul  wrote  : 
“ Spiritual  things  are  spiritually  discerned.”  There 
must  be  mental  kinship,  or  there  cannot  be  true 
valuation.  Bring  a depressed  or  distracted  mind  to 
the  most  exhilarating  service,  and  you  will  miss  its 
pith  and  point,  and  go  away  unrewarded. 

The  same  truth  obtains  in  our  commerce  with 
Nature,  which,  it  would  seem,  will  not  brook  a rival  in 
our  hearts  if  we  would  win  from  her  all  her  treasured 
sweets.  “ Give  me  your  whole  mind,  your  whole 
attention,”  she  says,  “ or  I will  close  up  every  foun- 
tain of  refreshment.”  What  benefit  will  that  man 
whose  mind  is  absorbed  in  the  affairs  of  the  market 
derive  from  a woodland  stroll?  What  secret  will 


THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION. 


217 


the  rustling  leaves  speak  to  him,  or  the  opening 
flowers,  or  the  chirping  birds?  He  sees  no  transit 
of  swift  wings,  and  the  sunshine  dapples  the  leaf- 
carpeted  ground  in  vain  for  eyes  that  see  only  the 
ledger  and  day-book  in  the  sylvan  haunt. 

My  own  experience  confirms  the  foregoing  state- 
ments. For  several  months  one  summer  I felt 
depressed  and  abstracted  on  account  of  several 
untoward  circumstances  which  need  not  be  described, 
for  “ every  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness.”  In 
this  mood  I sometimes  sauntered  out  to  my  wood- 
land haunts ; but  I saw  very  little,  and  what  I did 
see  bore  the  stamp  of  triteness,  and  seemed  as  dull 
and  languid  as  myself.  My  heart  was  otherwhere. 
A secret,  gnawing  grief  draws  the  thoughts  inward, 
and  breaks  the  spell  of  the  outer  world,  charm  she 
never  so  sweetly.  The  soul  hopelessly  hungering 
for  the  unattainable  comes  almost  to  despise  the 
blessings  within  its  grasp.  A-lack-a-day,  that  any- 
thing should  ever  come  between  the  heart  and  its 
gentle  mistress,  Nature  ! And  so  it  was  that  even 
the  birds,  my  precious  intimates,  became  a weari- 
ness both  to  the  flesh  and  the  spirit. 

Master  Chickadee  was  nothing  but  a lump  of  flesh 
covered  with  mezzo-tinted  feathers,  all  prose,  no 
poetry ; a creature  that  I had  once  invested  with  a 
rare  charm  (in  my  own  mind),  but  now  only  a lout  of 
a bird,  a buffoon,  whose  noisy  chatter  broke  harshly 
into  my  gloomy  meditations.  Once  I had  fairly 
revelled  in  the  army  of  kaleidoscopic  warblers,  and 
had  called  them  to  their  faces  all  kinds  of  endearing 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


2 18 

names,  like  a lover  wooing  a bride ; but  now,  in  my 
dejected  frame  of  mind,  they  were  prosaic  enough, 
and  provokingly  shy,  and  I felt  too  indifferent  even 
to  ogle  them  with  my  glass  as  they  tilted  in  the  tree- 
tops.  What  a humdrum  life  was  the  life  of  the 
birds,  anyway,  and  how  indescribably  humdrum  my 
semi-frequent  beat  in  the  woods  was  becoming  ! 

But  by  and  by,  in  the  autumn,  an  event  occurred 
that  transformed  my  inner  world,  dispelling  the 
darkness,  dissipating  the  clouds,  bathing  all  in  sun- 
shine. Then  I hied  to  the  fields  and  woods,  and, 
behold,  a metamorphosis  ! The  inner  miracle  had 
wrought  an  outer  wonder.  Never  was  there  “ such 
mutual  recognition  vaguely  sweet  ” between  the 
autumn  woods  and  my  appreciative  heart.  The 
ground,  flecked  with  sunshine,  filtering  through  the 
browning  leaves,  became  a work  of  mosaic  fit  for  a 
king  to  tread  on,  and  the  westerly  breeze  sang  a 
paean  through  the  branches.  And  how  many  birds 
there  were  ! A flock  of  robins  were  chirping  in  the 
grove,  now  and  then  breaking  into  song,  as  if  they 
had  forgotten  that  spring  was  past  and  that  it  was 
unconventional  for  robin  redbreast  to  sing  in  the 
autumn ; but  they  seemed  to  be  willing  to  make  a 
breach  of  the  convenances  to  give  me  delight. 

Numerous  warblers  chirped  in  the  tree-tops,  or 
swung  out  on  the  upbuoying  air  to  catch  some  ill- 
fated  insect  on  the  wing ; and  although  I could  not 
identify  many  of  them,  I felt  no  annoyance,  as  I had 
at  other  times,  for  I could  truly  u rejoice  with  those 
that  do  rejoice,”  because  I had  no  sorrow  of  my 


THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION. 


219 


own  to  distract  my  mind.  I could  have  forgiven 
almost  any  trick  a bird  had  seen  fit  to  play  me. 
The  brown  creeper,  just  from  his  haunt  in  some 
primeval  forest  of  British  America,  went  hitching  up 
a tree-bole  in  his  own  quaint  way  without  even  the 
courtesy  of  a friendly  how-d’-you-do ; but  I forgave 
the  slight,  and  told  him  he  was  a poet,  — there  was 
rhythm  in  every  movement,  and  his  feathers  rhymed 
each  with  its  fellow. 

Across  the  breezy  hills  to  the  river  valley  I made 
my  way  in  lightsome  mood,  finding  birds  a-plenty 
wherever  I went.  More  than  once  the  song-spar- 
rows broke  into  their  autumnal  twitter,  aftermath  of 
their  springtime  choruses  when  they  were  in  full 
tone ; and  occasionally  the  Carolina  wren  uttered 
his  stirring  reveille,  which,  though  perhaps  not  tune- 
ful in  itself,  seemed  tuneful  to  me  that  day,  because 
there  was  music  in  my  own  mind.  When  you  are 
in  the  right  mood,  even  the  distant  caw  of  the  crow 
or  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  blue  jay  sets  the  harp  of 
your  soul  to  melody ; while  the  riotous  piping  of  the 
cardinal  grossbeak  makes  you  feel  as  if  you  were 
“ married  to  immortal  verse.” 

But,  alas  ! when  “ loathed  melancholy,  of  Cer- 
berus and  blackest  midnight  bom,”  is  your  unbidden 
companion,  every  overture  of  Nature  is  a burden,  an 
intrusion  into  the  privacy  of  your  grief,  and  — 

“ Vainly  morning  spreads  her  lure 
Of  a sky  serene  and  pure.” 

In  a leaf- strewn  arcade  beneath  the  overarching 
bushes  hard  by  the  river,  were  the  merry  j uncos,  my 


220 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


companions  of  the  winter,  which  had  come  back 
from  their  summer  vacation  in  the  north.  How 
glad  I was  to  salute  them  and  welcome  them  home  ! 
Their  trig  little  forms,  sprightly  motions,  confident 
air  of  comradery,  and  merry  trills  were  a joy  to  me. 
And  then  I could  not  help  wondering  if  any  of  them 
might  be  the  same  birds  I had  met  during  the  early 
summer  on  one  of  the  green  mountains  of  Canada, 
where  I had  spent  a day  of  rapturous  delight.  In 
the  same  sequestered  angle,  autumn  though  it  was, 
the  phcebe  bird  brought  back  reminiscences  of 
spring,  with  his  cheery  whistle ; while  farther  down 
the  valley  his  shy  relative,  the  wood-pewee,  com- 
plained dulcetly  that  winter  was  coming  to  drive 
him  from  his  pleasant  summer  haunts.  Every 
sound,  whether  joyful  or  sad,  struck  a responding 
chord  in  my  heart,  because  Nature  had  my  undi- 
vided thought. 

When  the  mind  is  distracted  by  sorrows  it  can- 
not shake  off,  it  boots  little  that  the  chirp  of  the 
chestnut-sided  and  cerulean  warblers  is  sharp  and 
penetrating ; that  the  call  of  the  black-throated 
green,  black- throated  blue  and  myrtle  warblers  is 
somewhat  harsh ; that  the  Maryland  yellow-throat 
expresses  his  alarm  or  disapproval  in  a note  still 
lower  in  the  scale  and  quite  rasping ; that  the  Black- 
burnian and  parula  warblers  tilt  about  far  up  in  the 
tree-tops,  as  if  they  scorned  the  ground ; that  the 
black-throats  and  creepers  dance  airily  about  in  the 
bushes  or  lower  branches  of  the  trees,  come  con- 
fidingly near  you,  a tiny  interrogation  point  dangling 


THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION . 


221 


from  every  eyelash,  ask  you  what  you  are  about, 
what  you  do  when  you  are  at  home,  whether  you 
have  just  come  from  the  hospital  that  you  look  so 
pale,  and,  having  decided  that  you  are  a harmless 
monomaniac,  to  say  the  worst,  go  about  their  play- 
ful toil  of  capturing  insects,  apparently  unmindful 
of  your  presence.  But  when  your  heart  is  jolly  and 
full  of  nature  love,  all  these  simple  facts,  proving  the 
large  diversity  of  temperament  in  bird-land’s  deni- 
zens, are  a source  of  joy  to  you  ; you  note  them,  are 
glad  on  account  of  them,  though  you  scarcely  know 
why. 

In  a quiet  retreat  just  beyond  a steep-graded  rail- 
way-track the  black-throated  green  warblers  were 
very  abundant  and  unusually  rollicksome.  It  was 
strange  how  they  could  dash  about  in  the  thorn-trees 
without  impaling  themselves  on  the  terrible  spears. 
One  little  fellow  swung  out  of  a tree  after  a miller, 
which  dropped  upon  a fence-post  near  by.  Why 
did  the  natty  bird  act  so  queerly?  He  danced  about 
on  the  top  of  the  post,  tried  to  pick  up  something, 
but  was  baffled  in  all  his  efforts ; then  he  scudded 
around  the  post  a few  inches  below  the  top  like  a 
nuthatch,  uttering  his  harsh  little  chirp.  At  length 
I stepped  up,  determined  to  solve  the  enigma. 
There  was  the  solution ; the  miller  had  wriggled  into 
a deep  hole  in  the  post,  so  that  the  bird  could  not 
reach  it.  With  a slender  stick  I drew  it  out  of  its 
hiding-place,  and  placed  it  on  the  top  of  the  post ; 
but  whether  the  bird  ever  went  back  and  profited  by 
my  well-meant  helpfulness  I do  not  know.  Begging 


222 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


the  poor  miller’s  pardon,  I felt  happy  in  befriending 
the  charming  fairy  of  a bird.  With  gladness  throb- 
bing in  every  corpuscle,  it  was  not  in  my  place  to 
question  Nature’s  economy  in  making  the  sacrifice 
of  one  life  necessary  to  the  sustenance  of  another. 

Tramping  on,  I presently  found  myself  in  a marsh 
stretching  back  from  the  river-bank.  As  I stood  in 
the  tangle  of  tall  grass  and  weeds,  listening  to  the 
songs  and  twitters  of  various  birds,  the  sentiment, 
if  not  the  precise  lines,  of  Lowell,  came  to  mind  like 
a draught  of  invigorating  air,  — 

“Dear  marshes  ! vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light. 

Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare. 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 

For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders 
rare.” 

But  what  was  that  sharp  chirp?  It  instantly  drew 
my  thoughts  from  the  marsh  itself  and  the  poet’s 
tribute.  Opera-glass  in  hand,  I softly  stole  near  the 
bushy  clump  from  which  the  sound  came.  Ah  ! 
there  the  bird  was,  tilting  uneasily  on  a slender  twig. 
The  swamp-sparrow  ! It  was  the  first  time  I had 
positively  identified  this  bird  in  my  *own  neighbor- 
hood, — not,  I suppose,  because  it  had  not  been  pres- 
ent often  and  again,  but  because  I had  been  too 
dull  of  sight  to  see  it.  Then  came  a glad  memory. 
I recalled  the  peculiar  circumstances  under  which  I 
had  seen  my  first  swamp-sparrow,  hundreds  of  miles 


THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION . 


223 


away.  During  a visit  to  Boston  and  vicinity,  a 
year  prior,  I spent  a never-to-be-forgotten  afternoon 
with  Bradford  Torrey,  who  needs  no  introduction 
to  intelligent  readers.  We  walked  out  to  some  of 
his  favorite  haunts.  It  was  an  ideal  October  day, 
and  the  charming  New  England  landscape  threw  a 
spell  over  me  that  gave  me  a kind  of  other-worldly 
feeling.  My  companion  was  all  I had  expected  him  to 
be,  and  more,  — a good  talker  and  an  appreciative 
listener,  — and  even  now,  when  I recall  my  saunter 
with  this  quiet,  gentle  bird-lover,  it  seems  more  like 
a dream  than  a reality. 

The  afternoon  had  slipped  well  by  when  we  came 
to  a bush-fringed  brook  and  Mr.  Torrey  told  me  that 
there  were  swamp- sparrows  in  the  thickets.  “ How 
much  I should  like  to  see  one  ! ” I cried.  “ The 
swamp-sparrow  is  a stranger  to  me.”  “ You  shall 
have  your  wish  gratified,”  he  replied ; and  forthwith 
he  climbed  the  fence,  stalked  to  the  other  side  of 
the  stream,  and  slowly,  gently  drove  the  chirping 
sparrows  toward  me,  so  that  I could  see  their  mark- 
ings plainly  with  my  glass.  How  lovingly  I ogled 
them  ! I could  not  get  my  fill  of  the  birds  shown 
me  by  one  whom  I had  loved  so  long  at  a distance. 
It  was  an  epoch  in  my  poor  life,  — an  epoch  in  a 
double  sense.  Who  will  censure  my  feeling  of  grati- 
fied pride?  In  the  evening,  after  our  stroll,  as  we 
walked  to  and  fro  on  the  platform  at  the  railway- 
station  waiting  for  the  train  to  start,  I remarked  : 
“ Mr.  Torrey,  I shall  never  forget  my  first  meeting 
with  the  swamp-sparrow.” 


224 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


“No,”  he  responded  innocently,  as  if  my  humble 
remembrance  would  confer  an  honor  upon  him ; 
“ whenever  you  see  that  bird  hereafter,  you  will 
think  of  me,  won’t  you?  ” I told  him  I should;  and 
that  evening  in  the  marsh,  a year  later,  I kept  my 
tryst  with  memory,  while  tears,  half  sad,  half  glad, 
dimmed  my  eyes. 

But  hark  ! A little  farther  on,  from  the  sparse 
bushes  of  a grassy  bank,  came  the  swinging  treble 
of  a white-throated  sparrow,  like  a votive  offering. 
What  enchantment  possessed  the  birds  that  evening  ? 
Had  Orpheus  with  his  miracle-working  harp  come 
back  to  earth?  I was  half  tempted  to  believe  for 
the  nonce  in  the  transmigration  of  souls,  for  the 
notes  drifted  so  sadly  sweet  on  the  still  air,  as  if 
the  fabled  minstrel  had  indeed  returned  to  mundane 
realms.  Among  the  thick  clusters  of  weeds  and 
bushes  that  fringed  a railway,  which  I pursued  in  my 
homeward  walk,  many  birds  were  going  to  roost,  — • 
sparrows,  warblers,  red-winged  blackbirds,  and  car- 
dinal grossbeaks.  My  passing  along  alarmed  them, 
and  sent  them  dashing  from  their  leafy  couches. 

Thus  the  afternoon  passed.  I had  not,  perhaps, 
learned  as  many  new  things  about  my  kinsmen  in 
plumes  as  on  many  other  rambles,  but  I had  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  appreciation ; that  the  mind 
must  be  unharassed  by  carking  care  or  depressing 
sorrow  to  win  the  best  from  Nature.  Give  me  a 
lightsome  heart,  and  I will  trudge  with  any  pedestrian. 
Give  me  a heavy  heart,  and  the  weight  clings  to  the 
soles  of  my  feet  like  barnacles  to  a ship’s  bottom. 


THE  SECRET  OF  APPRECIATION.  225 

Given  the  proper  mood,  the  lines  of  an  American 
poet  — no  need  to  mention  his  name  — have  the 
ring  of  gospel  truth,  — 

“ Nature,  the  supplement  of  man, 

His  hidden  sense  interpret  can ; 

What  friend  to  friend  cannot  convey 
Shall  the  dumb  bird  instructed  say.” 


226 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


XVII. 

BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS. 

E'  VEN  the  most  home-loving  body  may  sometimes 
j gain  refreshment,  and  at  the  same  time  have 
his  mental  vision  broadened,  by  a jaunt  to  another 
neighborhood ; and  if  he  has  a hobby,  he  may 
beguile  the  days  in  riding  it,  and  thus  evade,  for  a 
time  at  least,  that  most  harrowing  of  all  maladies, 
homesickness.  Well,  to  make  a long  story  short, 
and  a dull  one  a little  brighter,  let  me  say  at  once 
that  I have,  more  or  less  recently,  made  several 
visits  to  various  points  of  interest,  and  everywhere 
have  found  delightful  comradeship  with  the  birds. 
First,  I shall  speak  of  a trip  to  Montreal,  that  gem 
city  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  beautiful  for  situation  as 
well  as  for  other  attractive  features. 

South  of  the  city  a mountain  rears  its  green, 
symmetrical  mass.  True,  it  is  not  very  lofty  as 
mountains  go ; but  standing  there  alone  in  the  midst 
of  a far  stretching  plain,  it  seems  really  majestic, 
especially  to  one  unused  to  great  altitudes.  It  is  a 
favorite  pleasure-resort  for  residents  and  visitors, 
having  been  converted  into  a beautiful  park,  with 
winding  paths  and  driveways,  many  shady  nooks, 
with  comfortable  benches  to  lounge  on,  and  a tower 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS . 227 

on  the  summit,  from  which  you  can  look  down  upon 
a scene  that  is  really  enchanting.  Nestling  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain  is  the  city,  with  its  towers, 
steeples,  well-laid  streets,  and  palatial  residences ; 
curving  and  gleaming  far  to  the  northeast  and  south- 
west is  the  mighty  St.  Lawrence,  its  green  banks 
holding  it  in  loving  embrace  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  ; 
in  another  direction  you  trace  the  Ottawa  River 
meandering  far  to  the  northwest  like  a ribbon  of 
silver,  and  dividing  into  two  branches  a few  miles 
away,  thus  forming  the  island  of  ]\ftmtreal ; beyond 
the  St.  Lawrence  is  the  Lake  of  Two  Mountains,  and 
far  away  in  the  misty  distance  toward  the  south 
and  southwest,  are  the  blue  outlines  of  the  Green 
and  Adirondack  ranges ; in  other  directions  the 
plain  stretches  level  until  it  melts  in  the  hazy 
distance,  and  is  dotted  with  farm-houses,  villages, 
well-cultivated  fields,  and  green  woodlands. 

One  afternoon  a few  unoccupied  hours  were  at 
my  disposal.  I determined  to  spend  them  on 
Mount  Royal,  as  the  eminence  is  called.  A car 
wheels  you  up  an  inclined  plane,  almost  perpen- 
dicular near  the  top,  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  way 
to  the  summit.  Having  filled  myself  with  the  scene 
from  the  tower,  I was  starting  off  to  make  a tour  of 
the  park,  when  my  footsteps  were  arrested  by  a 
quaint  new  song  coming  from  a clump  of  trees 
farther  down  the  declivity.  Interest  in  everything 
else  vanished  in  a moment.  A good  deal  of  time 
was  spent  before  I could  get  a sight  of  the  minstrel. 
Much  to  my  surprise,  he  turned  out  to  be  a thrush ; 


228 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


the  species,  however,  could  not  be  determined  at 
the  time  for  lack  of  my  opera-glass,  as  the  bird  was 
perched  rather  high  in  a tree.  In  the  brief  time  at 
my  disposal  just  then,  I saw  a number  of  other 
birds,  and  resolved  to  spend  a day  on  the  mountain 
studying  them,  as  soon  as  other  duties  would  permit. 

That  day  came  in  good  time.  An  early  morning 
hour  found  me  skirting  the  steep  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain, alert  for  feathered  dwellers.  It  was  the  tenth 
of  July,  too  late  for  the  best  songs  and  for  finding 
birds  in  the  nes^  and  yet  I felt  fairly  well  satisfied 
with  the  results  of  the  day’s  excursion.  Presently 
the  song  of  the  thrush,  whose  identity  I had  come 
to  settle,  was  heard  in  the  copse.  A look  at  him 
with  my  glass  proved  him  to  be  the  veery,  or  Wilson’s 
thrush,  only  a migrant  in  my  State,  and  one  that 
pursues  his  pilgrimage  both  to  the  north  and  south 
in  patience-trying  silence. 

To  my  ear  the  song  was  sweet,  almost  hauntingly 
so.  Some  notes  were  quite  like  certain  strains  of 
the  wood-thrush’s  rich  song,  but  others  seemed  more 
ringing  and  bell-like,  and  the  whole  tune  was  more 
skilfully  and  smoothly  rendered,  — that  is,  with  less 
labored  effort.  Still,  I am  loath  to  say  that  the 
general  effect  of  this  bird’s  song  is  more  pleasing 
than  that  of  the  wood-thrush,  for  there  is  something 
far-away  and  dreamy  about  the  minstrelsy  of  the 
latter  that  one  does  not  hear  in  the  song  of  any 
other  species. 

The  veeries  evidently  had  nests  or  younglings 
among  the  bushes,  for  they  called  in  harsh,  alarmed 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS.  229 

tones  as  I entered  their  secluded  haunts,  but  I had 
not  the  good  fortune  to  find  a nest.  Indeed,  it 
was  too  late  to  discover  any  nests  at  all,  except  such 
as  had  been  deserted.  But,  to  my  great  delight,  I 
found  that  the  jolly  juncos  breed  on  the  mountain, 
for  there  they  were  carrying  food  to  their  little  ones, 
which  had  left  the  nursery  and  were  ensconced  in 
the  thick  foliage.  These  birds  are  winter  residents 
in  my  own  neighborhood,  but  in  the  spring  they  hie 
to  this  and  other  localities  of  the  same  and  higher 
latitudes  to  spend  the  summer.  It  was  refreshing 
to  meet  my  little  winter  intimates.  They  were  quite 
lyrical,  but  their  little  trills  did  not  seem  any  more 
tuneful  here  in  their  breeding-haunts  than  in  their 
winter  residences,  especially  when  Spring  pours  her 
subtle  essence  into  their  veins. 

Nothing  surprised  me  more  than  £0  find  song- 
sparrows  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  whereas  they 
are  usually  the  tenants  of  the  swamps  and  other  low- 
lands in  my  neighborhood.  Here  they  were  rearing 
families  on  the  mountain’s  crest  as  well  as  along  the 
streams  that  laved  the  mountain’s  base.  They  also 
sang  their  tinkling  roundels  in  both  places,  some- 
times ringing  them  out  so  loudly  that  they  could  be 
distinctly  heard  above  the  clatter  of  the  street  cars. 

At  one  place,  in  a cluster  of  half-dead  trees  and 
saplings,  a colony  of  warblers  were  tilting  about ; 
all  of  them  only  migrants  about  my  home  in  Ohio, 
but  breeding  here.  There  were  old  and  young 
creeping  warblers,  the  elders  singing  their  trills  in 
lively  fashion,  and  the  young  ones  twittering  coax- 


2 3° 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


ingly  for  food.  Here  were  also  a number  of  redstarts, 
— sonnets  in  black  and  gold,  — the  young  beseech- 
ing their  parents  constantly  for  more  luncheon.  A 
beautiful  chestnut-sided  warbler  wheeled  into  sight 
and  reeled  off  his  jolly  little  trill,  and  then  gave  his 
half-grown  baby  a tidbit  from  his  beak.  On  another 
part  of  the  mountain  the  song  of  a black-throated 
green  warbler  fell  pensively  on  the  ear,  coming  from 
the  thick  branches  of  a tall  tree,  like  a requiem  from 
a broken  heart.  Presently  he  flitted  down  into  plain 
view,  his  curiosity  drawing  him  toward  his  auditor 
sitting  beneath  on  the  grass.  No  doubt  his  mate 
was  crouched  on  her  nest  far  up  in  one  of  the  trees. 

In  a thicket  on  the  acclivity  of  the  mountain,  I 
heard  a loud,  appealing  call,  which  was  new  to  me  ; 
and  yet  it  evidently  came  from  the  throat  of  a young 
bird  pleading  for  its  dinner.  By  dint  of  a good  deal 
of  peering  about  and  patient  waiting,  I at  length 
found  it  to  be  a juvenile  chestnut-sided  warbler. 
Lying  on  the  ground  beneath  the  green  canopy 
of  the  bushes,  I watched  it  a long  time,  hoping  to 
see  the  old  bird  feed  it ; but  she  was  too  shy  to 
come  near,  although  the  youngster  gre^  almost  des- 
perate in  its  entreaties.  An  old  nest  in  the  crotch 
of  a sapling  near  at  hand  announced  where  the 
little  fellow  had,  no  doubt,  been  hatched.  It  was 
a beautiful  nest,  as  compactly  built  as  the  cottage 
of  a goldfinch,  and  was  decorated,  like  a red- eyed 
vireo’s  nest,  with  tiny  balls  of  spider-web  and  strips 
of  paper. 

Not  far  away  from  this  charmed  spot  a red- eyed 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS.  23 1 

vireo  had  hung  her  basket  to  the  horizontal  fork  of 
a small  swaying  branch.  It  was  still  fresh,  and  in 
such  good  condition  as  to  convince  me  that  it  had 
just  been  completed  by  the  little  basket-maker, 
which  had  not  yet  deposited  her  dainty  eggs  in  the 
cup.  No  other  bird  on  the  mountain  sang  as  much 
as  this  vireo,  with  the  sharp  red  eyes  and  golden 
breast.  On  the  whole,  I doubt  not  that  Mount 
Royal  would  be  an  almost  ideal  place  for  bird  study, 
if  one  could  spend  the  month  of  June  on  its  wooded 
summit,  slopes,  and  acclivities. 

The  next  visit  to  be  described  was  made  to  the 
somewhat  celebrated  Zoological  Garden  at  Cincin- 
nati, Ohio,  which  contains  a really  magnificent  collec- 
tion of  animals  and  birds.  However,  a description 
of  the  latter  must  suffice,  although  the  animals  inter- 
ested me  almost  as  deeply.  There  are  many  cages 
and  aviaries  containing  rare  species  of  feathered 
folk,  the  only  difficulty  being  that  they  are  not  so 
thoroughly  labelled  as  they  might  be  for  the  con- 
venience of  visitors,  many  of  whom  are  sufficiently 
interested  to  want  to  know  at  least  the  common 
names  of  the  birds.  All  curators  and  superin- 
tendents of  such  institutions  should  recognize  the 
importance  of  complete  and  systematic  labelling  of 
the  specimens  in  their  care. 

The  first  aviary  at  which  I stopped  consisted  of 
a collection  of  bright-hued  and  sweet-toned  birds, 
most  of  them  foreigners.  Here  one  could  revel 
in  variety ; for  there  were  crimson-eared  waxbills 
from  West  Africa,  black-headed  finches  from  India, 


232 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


cut-throat  finches  and  other  dainty  folk  from  across 
the  sea,  with  indigo-birds,  nonpareils,  goldfinches, 
and  song-sparrows  from  our  own  land.  Of  these, 
the  nonpareils,  or  painted  finches,  were  the  most 
gifted  singers,  having  loud,  clear  voices  that  rang 
far  above  the  voices  of  their  fellow-prisoners.  No 
birds  make  daintier  pets  than  these  pretty  creatures, 
with  their  delicate  blue  and  red  costumes.  The 
next  best  singer  in  this  collection  was  the  American 
goldfinch,  which  was  not  far  behind  the  nonpareil, 
and  really  excelled  him  in  one  respect,  — that  is,  his 
song  was  more  prolonged  and  varied. 

The  next  collection  was  certainly  a parti-hued 
one,  containing  cardinal  grossbeaks,  Brazilian  car- 
dinals, crow  blackbirds,  towhee  buntings,  brown 
thrashers,  and  English  blackbirds.  I had  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  the  song  of  the  Brazilian  cardinal. 
It  was  quite  fine,  but  scarcely  comparable  with  the 
rich,  full-toned,  and  varied  whistle  of  our  cardinal- 
bird,  being  much  less  vigorous,  slower  in  move- 
ment, and  feebler  in  tone.  It  was  gratifying  to  be 
able  to  give  the  palm  to  our  North  American 
songster. 

But  of  all  the  clatter  of  bird  music  and  bird  noise 
combined  that  I have  ever  heard  in  my  life,  the 
song  of  the  English  starling  bore  off  the  bays. 
Never  before  had  I listened  to  such  divers  sounds 
from  a bird’s  throat,  nor  had  I even  fancied  that 
they  were  possible.  Small  wonder  a well-trained 
starling  costs  from  twenty  to  forty  dollars  at  the 
bird  stores  ! No  description  can  do  justice  to  the 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS.  233 

starling’s  song.  He  begins  in  a low,  subdued  tone, 
and  seems  at  first  to  be  quite  calm  ; but  gradually  he 
grows  excited,  his  body  quivers  and  sways  from  side 
to  side,  his  neck  is  craned  out,  his  throat  expands  and 
contracts  convulsively,  and,  oh  ! oh  ! oh  ! — pardon 
the  exclamations  — the  hurly-burly  that  gurgles  and 
ripples  and  bubbles  and  pours  from  his  windpipe  ! 
At  one  point  a double  sound  is  produced,  or  two 
sounds  nearly  at  the  same  moment,  — one  low  and 
guttural,  the  other  on  a higher  key,  — presently  a 
half-dozen  notes  rush  forth  pell-mell,  accompanied 
by  a quick  snapping  of  the  mandibles then  a suc- 
cession of  loud,  musical,  explosive  notes  fall  on  the 
ear ; and  finally  the  bird,  as  if  in  a spasm  of  ecstasy, 
opens  his  mouth  wide  and  utters  a clear,  rapturous 
trill  as  a sort  of  musical  peroration.  It  is  simply 
wonderful.  At  first  the  bird  seems  to  control  the 
song,  but  erelong  the  song  seems  to  master  the  bird 
completely.  To  my  mind,  it  seemed  that  the  song- 
ster in  the  intervals  of  silence  had  wound  up  his 
music-box,  and  then,  having  got  started,  was  unable 
to  stop  until  the  spring  had  run  down.  Some  of 
the  notes  of  the  strain  were  quite  melodious,  while 
others  were  rather  grating. 

But  what  was  that  silvery  song,  rising  above  all 
the  other  clangor  of  music  ? It  was  the  trill  of  my 
peerless  little  friend,  the  white-throated  sparrow, 
which  I have  met  so  often  in  my  own  woodland 
trysts.  Were  I to  award  the  prize  to  any  bird  in 
the  whole  Zoo  for  sweetness  of  tone,  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  given  to  this  matchless  minstrel.  No  other 


2.34 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


bird’s  voice  had  such  a purely  musical  quality ; and 
he  sang  just  as  loudly  and  sweetly  as  he  does  in  his 
native  copse,  bringing  back  the  memory  of  many  a 
pleasant  woodland  ramble. 

A beautiful  family  group  next  claimed  attention. 
It  comprised  two  adult  silver  pheasants,  a male  and 
female,  and  two  little  chicks  recently  from  the  shell, 
which  had  been  hatched  in  the  Zoo.  They  looked 
like  downy  chickens,  and  were  about  as  large.  There 
was  no  hint  of  the  long,  gorgeous  plumes  that  their 
papa  bore  so  proudly ; nothing  but  brownish,  slightly 
checkered  down  made  up  their  suits.  When  their 
mamma  pecked  at  something  on  the  ground,  they 
would  scamper  to  her  for  it,  as  you  have  seen  small 
chickens  do.  Unlike  most  young  birds,  they  picked 
up  their  food  themselves,  and  did  not  pry  open 
their  mouths  to  be  fed. 

Had  you  seen  the  birds  I next  stopped  to  ogle, 
you  would  have  joined  in  my  merriment ; for  they 
were  the  great  kingfishers  of  Australia.  What  heavy 
bills  they  carried,  looking  like  good-sized  clubs  ! 
One  of  them  pounded  his  beak  against  his  perch 
until  it  fairly  rattled  with  the  concussion.  When  I 
tapped  lightly  against  the  wires,  they  stretched  out 
their  necks,  and  hissed  at  me  out  of  their  huge 
mouths. 

Nothing  was  more  pleasing  than  a large  wired 
house  containing  a dozen  or  more  blue  jays.  Rain 
was  falling  gently  at  the  time,  and  the  refreshing 
drops  filtered  upon  the  birds  through  the  wire  roof. 
How  they  enjoyed  their  bath  as  they  flitted  from 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS . 235 

perch  to  perch ! But  the  rain  did  not  descend 
rapidly  enough  for  several  of  them ; and  so,  in  order 
to  drench  their  plumage  more  thoroughly,  they 
plunged  into  the  leafy  bushes  growing  in  their  apart- 
ment, and  crept  about  over  and  through  the  sprinkled 
foliage  until  their  feathers  were  well  rinsed. 

An  interesting  bird  was  the  yellow- headed  black- 
bird, which  is  a resident  of  some  of  our  Western 
States,  but  which  does  not  deign  even  to  visit  my 
neighborhood.  His  whole  head  and  neck  are 
brilliant  yellow,  as  if  he  had  plunged  up  to  his 
shoulders  in  a keg  of  yellow  paint,  while  the  rest  of 
his  attire  is  shiny  black.  He  utters  a loud,  shrill 
whistle,  quite  unlike  any  sound  produced  by  his 
kinsmen,  the  crow  blackbird  and  the  red-wing.  He 
seemed  to  feel  quite  at  home  in  his  cage  with  several 
other  species  of  birds. 

Many  a time  I have  thought  I heard  a tumult  of 
bird  song  in  the  fields  or  woods,  but  at  the  Zoo  I 
was  greeted  with  a perfect  din  from  the  throats  of 
more  than  two  dozen  indigo-birds,  all  singing  simul- 
taneously. They  simply  drowned  out  every  other 
sound  in  the  neighborhood  when  they  chimed  in 
the  chorus.  Even  the  goldfinch,  doing  his  level 
best,  could  not  be  heard  until  there  was  a lull  in 
the  shriller  music.  In  the  same  enclosure  were  the 
bluebirds  and  robins.  My  pity  went  out  to  one  of 
the  robins,  which  was  trying  to  build  a nest,  but 
could  not  find  a proper  site  nor  the  right  kind  of 
material.  She  would  pick  up  a bunch  of  fibres  and 
strings  from  the  ground,  fling  them  on  the  window- 


236 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


sill,  and  then  squat  down  upon  them  to  press  them 
into  the  desired  concave  with  her  red  bosom ; but 
it  was  all  to  no  purpose,  for  she  had  no  mortar  with 
which  to  rear  the  walls  of  a cottage. 

Leaving  the  robin  to  her  fruitless  labors,  I turned 
to  a collection  of  weaver-birds  of  various  species 
and  divers  markings.  There  was  one,  especially, 
with  a black  head  and  neck  and  yellow  body,  that 
attracted  notice.  He  was  rather  handsome ; his 
song,  however,  was  a perfect  squall,  especially  the 
closing  notes.  These  birds  did  not  sing  all  the 
time,  but  intermittently,  one  of  them  beginning  with 
a few  ringing  notes  as  a prelude,  and  then  the  others 
joining,  all  screaming  louder  and  louder  as  the 
chorus  went  on,  until  they  ended  in  a supreme 
racket.  Then  there  were  a few  moments  of  quiet, 
followed  by  the  united  chorus  as  before,  making 
such  a tumult  that  one  voice  could  scarcely  be  dis- 
tinguished from  another.  A dainty  little  sparrow, 
unnamed,  seemed  to  fill  in  the  intervals  with  his  chirp- 
ings, forming  a sort  of  semi-musical  interlude. 

The  enclosure  which  contained  the  yellow-headed 
blackbird  was  divided  into  a number  of  apartments. 
Here  were  parrots  of  various  species,  among  them  a 
number  of  white-throated  Amazons.  You  have 
doubtless  heard  a dozen  or  more  parrots  screaming 
simultaneously.  On  my  visit  these  birds  created 
a terrible  hubbub.  They  cried  and  laughed  and 
sighed  and  groaned  and  shrieked  until  my  ears  were 
almost  deafened.  But  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  when 
there  was  a slight  lull,  could  be  heard  the  silvery 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS.  237 

trill  of  a white-throated  sparrow,  sounding  like  the 
music  of  an  angel  amid  a tumult  of  imps. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  garden  there  is  a long 
pond  enclosed  by  wire  fencing,  and  on  and  about 
this  pond  is  to  be  found  an  interesting  group  of 
water-fowls.  There  was  a large  bluish-colored  crane 
with  a ruff  of  feathers  about  his  head.  A workman 
came  along  and  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  bird, 
which  hopped  and  leaped  about  and  almost  turned 
a somersault.  A great  blue  heron  had  made  a nest 
of  sticks  and  twigs  on  the  bare  bank  of  the  pond, 
and  was  sitting  on  two  eggs.  While  I was  watching 
her,  she  rose  slowly  on  her  long  stilts,  stretched  out 
her  stiffened  wings,  rearranged  the  sticks  with  her 
bill,  and  then  sat  down  on  her  eggs  again,  turning 
them  under  her  breast.  What  an  opportunity  for  a 
bird  student  if  day  by  day  he  could  have  watched 
her  build  her  nest  and  rear  her  young  ! 

Swimming  about  on  the  pond  like  a couple  of 
feathered  craft  were  two  great  white  pelicans  with 
long  bills  and  elevated  wings.  A tuft  of  feathers  or 
bristles  grew  on  the  top  of  their  upper  mandibles. 
They  seemed  to  be  guying  each  other,  or  probably 
were  engaged  in  a real  naval  battle ; for  they  pur- 
sued each  other  around  and  around,  engaged  in 
various  martial  movements  and  counter-movements, 
and  every  now  and  then  clashed  together  their  great 
beaks  like  two  men  fencing  with  swords.  But  they 
avoided  close  contact.  How  lightly  and  smoothly 
they  glided  about  on  the  water  ! 

Standing  on  a platform  on  the  other  side  of  the 


238 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


pond,  were  two  more  large,  almost  gigantic  pelicans, 
not  of  the  same  species  as  the  two  just  mentioned, 
having  no  tufts  on  their  beaks,  but  a large  feather- 
less spot  on  the  side  of  their  heads  encircling  the 
eye.  There  they  stood,  silently  preening  their 
plumes,  dexterously  drawing  each  snowy  feather 
between  their  mandibles.  How  long  they  had  been 
making  their  toilet  I cannot  say.  Presently  the  first 
two  pelicans  came  sailing  over  to  the  platform,  and 
climbed  awkwardly  upon  it.  Would  there  be  a 
pitched  battle  between  them  and  the  other  two 
birds?  One  of  the  latter  stretched  forth  his  neck, 
and,  to  my  great  surprise,  puffed  out  a large  mem- 
branous bag  or  pouch  at  his  throat  like  that  of  a 
frog,  and  uttered  a warning  cry.  But  soon  the 
quartette  of  feathered  Goliaths  settled  down  into 
quiet,  and  adjusted  their  plumes  without  the  least 
interference  with  one  another’s  comfort. 

Following  a winding  pathway,  I presently  reached 
an  apartment  which  contained  sixteen  great  horned 
owls,  sitting  in  a row  and  looking  as  wise  as  Greek 
sages.  It  was  amusing  to  see  them  expand  their 
eyes  and  stare  through  the  blinding  light,  then 
blink,  close  one  eye  and  dilate  the  other,  and  then 
shut  both  so  nearly  that  only  narrow  chinks  were 
visible  between  the  lids.  Several  of  them  opened 
their  small,  human-like  mouths,  and  hissed  at  me 
softly  whenever  I stirred.  In  another  part  of  the 
ground  there  was  a collection  of  barn  owls,  with 
faces  that  looked  very  intelligent;  but  the  birds 
seemed  to  be  quite  wild,  glaring  with  their  black 


BROWSINGS  IN  OTHER  FIELDS.  239 

eyes  and  swaying  their  heads  from  side  to  side  in 
a nervous,  irritable  way. 

I felt  many  times  repaid  for  my  saunter  through 
the  Zoo,  and  would  advise  all  who  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  visiting  a good  zoological  garden  not  to 
let  it  go  by  unimproved.  A great  deal  of  informa- 
tion as  well  as  pleasure  may  be  thus  gained. 

Wherever  one  is,  one  must  get  people  to  talking 
about  one’s  mania.  How  else  could  it  be  said  that 
there  is  method  in  one’s  madness,  or  in  what  re- 
spects it  differs  from  mere  lunacy?  While  visiting 
with  a delightful  family  living  in  a city  some  dis- 
tance from  my  home,  our  conversation  drifted  — 
perhaps  with  a good  deal  of  calculation  on  my  part 
— to  the  birds,  with  the  result  that  I was  put  in 
possession  of  several  facts  worth  noting,  chiefly  be- 
cause they  prove  how  helpful  some  birds  are  to  one 
another  in  their  domestic  relations.  No  birds  are 
more  ingenious  in  planning  for  one  another’s  com- 
fort and  safety  than  our  “ foreign  brethren,”  the 
English  sparrows.  The  mistress  of  this  intelligent 
family,  a woman  who  has  keen  eyes  and  ears  for 
the  birds,  declared  that  she  always  heard  one  spar- 
row in  the  trees  about  the  house  waking  up  its 
sleeping  mates  at  break  of  day,  like  the  father  of  a 
family  rousing  his  drowsing  children.  It  called  in 
shrill  tones  as  if  it  were  saying,  “ Wake  up  ! wake 
up  ! Day  is  coming  ! Time  to  go  to  work  ! ” As 
it  continued  its  clamor,  it  seemed  to  be  flying 
about  from  one  point  to  another,  visiting  every  bed- 
room, until  at  length  a faint  peep  was  heard  here 


240 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


and  there  in  response  from  various  members  of  the 
sparrow  household,  and  erelong  the  entire  com- 
pany was  awake.  When  my  friend  told  me  this 
story,  I was  considerably  surprised,  not  to  say  a 
little  skeptical.  But,  remaining  in  their  home  over 
night,  I had  an  opportunity  to  confirm  the  story, 
for  I was  myself  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the 
loud,  impatient  calls  of  a sparrow  rousing  his  fam- 
ily ; and  the  process  took  place  just  as  my  inform- 
ants had  described  it,  leaving  no  longer  any  room 
for  doubt. 

The  same  kind  friends  described  another  cun- 
ning freak  of  bird  behavior.  A lady’s  bedroom 
window  opened  near  some  bushy  trees,  in  which  a 
pair  of  birds  — perhaps  robins  — had  built  a nest. 
At  night  the  lady  would  often  hear  the  male  singing. 
But  sometimes  he  would  grow  drowsy,  and  would 
become  silent,  — he  had  evidently  got  to  napping, 
— when  there  would  be  a coaxing,  complaining 
Pc-e-e-p!  pe-e-e-p  ! from  the  little  wife  on  the  nest, 
evidently  asking  him  to  “ sing  some  more.”  Then 
he  would  tune  his  pipe  again  until  his  throat  got 
tired  and  his  eyelids  heavy.  In  this  way  the  ex- 
acting wife  kept  her  spouse  serenading  her  for  a 
large  part  of  the  night.  Perhaps,  like  children, 
she  could  not  sleep  unless  some  one  was  singing  to 
her.  At  all  events,  it  was  very  bright  of  her  to  de- 
mand a lullaby  or  love -song  from  her  husband  to 
put  her  to  sleep. 

The  conduct  of  many  kinds  of  birds  in  the 
autumn  while  preparing  for  their  Hegira  to  the 


BROWSING  IN  OTHER  FIELDS . 


241 


south  is  extremely  interesting.  They  assemble  in 
flocks,  sometimes  large  enough  to  suggest  an  ecu- 
menical council,  and  fall  to  cackling,  twittering, 
discussing,  and  in  many  other  ways  making  prepa- 
ration for  their  aerial  voyage  to  another  clime. 
They  really  seem  to  regret  being  compelled  to 
leave  their  pleasant  summer  haunts,  if  one  may 
judge  from  the  length  and  fervor  of  their  good- 
byes. Perhaps  they  are  like  human  beings  who 
have  a strong  attachment  for  home,  and  must  visit 
every  nook  and  tryst  to  say  au  revoir  before  they 
take  their  departure.  One  can  easily  imagine  how 
dear  to  their  hearts  are  the  scenes  of  their  child- 
hood, and  of  their  nest-building  and  brood-rearing. 

No  birds  make  a greater  to-do  over  their  leave- 
taking  in  the  autumn  than  the  house  martins.  I 
once  visited  for  a few  days  with  some  friends  who 
live  in  the  country  and  have  had  a bevy  of  mar- 
tins in  their  boxes  for  many  years.  They  described 
the  behavior  of  these  birds  when  fall  comes.  At  a 
certain  date  in  September  they  will  gather  in  a 
compact  flock,  sing  and  whistle  and  chatter  at  the 
top  of  their  voices,  circle  about  the  premises,  alight- 
ing on  the  trees,  fences,  and  buildings,  and  then  will 
rise  in  the  air  and  sail  away  through  the  blue  ether. 
Strange  to  say,  they  may  return  in  a day  or  two, 
and  repeat  their  evolutions ; and  this  may  be 
done  several  times  before  they  say  adieu  and  begin 
their  southward  pilgrimage  in  real  earnest.  Why 
do  they  do  this?  One  might  well  rack  one’s  brain 
in  vain  conjectures.  Do  they  lose  their  way  the 
16 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


242 

first  time?  Or  do  they  get  a bad  start,  and  then 
come  back  to  try  again?  Or  do  they  get  home- 
sick after  they  have  gone  some  distance,  and  return 
once  more  to  look  upon  the  familiar  scenes?  It 
would  be  difficult  to  sift  all  the  processes  of  bird 
cerebration. 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL . 243 


XVIII. 

A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL.1 

IN  making  a study  of  Lowell’s  poetry  for  a special 
purpose,  one  cannot  help  admiring  the  genius 
with  which  he  transmutes  every  theme  he  touches 
into  gold.  His  Muse  is  exceedingly  versatile,  ranging 
at  her  own  sweet  will  over  a wide  and  varied  field. 
There  may  be  times  when  you  are  not  in  the  mood 
for  smiling  at  his  humor  or  weeping  at  his  pathos ; 
but  his  delineations  of  Nature  are  always  so  true, 
so  musical,  so  picturesque,  that  they  seldom  fail  to 
strike  a responsive  chord  in  the  breasts  of  those 
readers  who  are  not 

“Aliens  among  the  birds  and  brooks, 

Dull  to  interpret  or  conceive 

What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve.” 

No  other  American  poet  seems  to  get  quite  so 
near  to  Nature’s  throbbing  heart.  Dream  though 
he  sometimes  may,  he  seldom  loses  his  hold  on  the 
world  of  reality.  Nature  in  her  own  garb  is  beauti- 

1 This  article,  under  the  title  of  “Lowell  and  the  Birds,” 
was  first  published  in  the  “ New  England  Magazine,”  for 
November,  1891,  shortly  after  the  poet’s  death.  Copyright 
credit  is  here  given  to  the  publisher  of  that  magazine. 


244 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


ful  enough  for  him,  and  does  not  need  the  garnish- 
ing and  drapery  of  an  over-fanciful  interpretation. 
It  is  not  my  purpose,  however,  to  eulogize  LowelPs 
poetry,  even  his  poetry  of  Nature,  in  a general  way, 
or  attempt  an  analysis  of  it,  but  simply  to  call  atten- 
tion to  his  metrical  descriptions  of  the  feathered 
creation.  Among  all  our  American  poets,  he  is  the 
limner  par  excellence  of  bird  ways.  It  is  true  that 
Emerson  is  somewhat  rich  in  allusions  to  our  feath- 
ered denizens,  and  especially  felicitous  in  his  char- 
acterizations ; but  his  references  are  briefer,  more 
casual,  and  far  less  frequent  than  those  of  Lowell, 
who  takes  toll  of  them,  one  might  almost  say, 
without  stint;  for  he  says  of  himself, — 

“ My  heart,  I cannot  still  it, 

Nest  that  has  song-birds  in  it.” 

Lowell  never  speaks  of  the  birds  in  a stereotyped 
way,  as  many  poets  do,  but  mentions  them  by  name, 
and  often  describes  their  behavior  with  a deftness 
and  accuracy  of  touch  that  fairly  enchant  the 
specialist  in  bird  lore.  Having  given  no  little  at- 
tention to  the  study  of  birds,  I feel  prepared  to  say 
that  Lowell’s  hand  is  almost  always  sure  when  he 
undertakes  to  depict  the  manners  of  the  “ feathered 
republic  of  the  groves.”  I have  found,  I think, 
only  one  technical  inaccuracy  in  all  his  numerous 
allusions  ; 1 and  I believe  I may  say,  without  boasting, 

1 The  one  noted  in  the  chapter  on  “The  Wood-Pewee.” 
As  the  poem  on  this  bird  is  quoted  in  that  article,  it  has  been 
purposely  omitted  from  this  collection  of  passages. 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOIVELL.  245 


that  I am  familiar  with  every  bird  whose  charms  he 
has  chanted.  Indeed,  he  himself  boasts  modestly, 
as  poets  may,  of  his  familiarity  with  the  birds  in  his 
beautiful  tribute  to  George  William  Curtis,  saying,  — 

“ I learned  all  weather-signs  of  day  and  night ; 

No  bird  but  I could  name  him  by  his  flight.” 

In  the  first  place,  let  me  point  out  the  remarkable 
felicity  of  his  more  general  references  to  birds  and 
their  ways.  The  music  of  the  minstrels  of  the  air 
often  fills  his  bosom  with  pleasing  but  half- regretful 
reminders  of  other  and  happier  days,  as,  for 
example,  when  he  penned  those  exquisite  lines, 
“To  Perdita,  Singing,”  — 

“ She  sits  and  sings, 

With  folded  wings 
And  white  arms  crost, 

* Weep  not  for  bygone  things, 

They  are  not  lost.’  ” 

Then  follow  some  lines  of  rare  sweetness,  the 
concluding  ones  of  which  are  these,  — 

“ Every  look  and  every  word 
Which  thou  givest  forth  to-day, 

Tells  of  the  singing  of  the  bird 
Whose  music  stilled  thy  boyish  play.” 

A similar  pensive  reference  is  found  in  our  poet’s 
ode,  “To  the  Dandelion,”  which  is  as  deserving 
of  admiration  as  many  of  the  more  famous  odes 
of  English  poesy.  He  thus  apostrophizes  “ the 
common  flower”  that  fringes  “the  dusty  road  with 
harmless  gold,”  — 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


246 

“ My  childhood’s  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee ; 

The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin’s  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 

Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long; 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 

Listened  as  if  I heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 

When  birds  and  flowers  and  I were  happy  peers.” 

A bird  often  affords  our  poet  a metaphor  or  a 
simile  by  which  to  represent  some  sad  reminiscence 
of  his  life.  Listen  to  this  sweet  minor  strain,  — 

“ As  a twig  trembles,  which  a bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred;  — 

I only  know  she  came  and  went.” 

With  what  a plaintive  melody  the  last  line  lingers 
in  one’s  mind,  like  some  far-off  melancholy  strain, 
singing  itself  over  again  and  again  with  a persistency 
that  will  not  be  hushed,  — “ I only  know  she  came 
and  went.”  There  are  times,  too,  when  our  bard 
falls  into  a slightly  despondent  mood,  and  even 
then  the  birds  serve  to  give  a turn  to  his  pensive 
reflections,  — 

“ But  each  day  brings  less  summer  cheer, 

Crimps  more  our  ineffectual  spring, 

And  something  earlier  every  year 
Our  singing  birds  take  wing.” 

To  my  mind,  he  is  less  attractive  when  his  verse 
takes  on  this  cheerless  hue,  and  I therefore  turn 
gladly  to  his  more  jubilant  lays,  in  which  he  seems 
to  have  caught  the  joy  of  the  full-toned  bird 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL . 247 


orchestra,  as  he  does  at  more  than  one  place  in 
“ The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,”  — 

“ The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 

And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees,” 

What  bird  lover  has  not  often  been  caught  in 
such  a mesh  of  bird  song,  on  a bright  day  of  the 
early  springtime  ? Even  good-natured  Hosea  Big- 
low cannot  always  repress  his  enthusiasm  for  the 
birds,  although  he  is  quite  too  chary  of  his  allusions 
to  them,  — that  is,  too  chary  for  the  man  who  has 
birds  on  the  brain.  His  unsophisticated  sincerity 
cannot  brook  a perfunctory  treatment  of  Nature’s 
blithe  minstrels,  for  he  breaks  out  scornfully  in 
denouncing  those  book-read  poets  who  get  “wut 
they’ve  airly  read”  so  “ worked  into  their  heart 
an’  head  ” that  they 

** . . . can’t  seem  to  write  but  jest  on  sheers 
With  furrin  countries  or  played-out  ideers. 

This  makes  ’em  talk  o’  daisies,  larks,  an’  things, 

Ez  though  we ’d  nothin’  here  that  blows  an’  sings. 
Why,  I ’d  give  more  for  one  live  bobolink 
Than  a square  mile  o’  larks  in  printer’s  ink ! ” 

Hosea,  in  spite  of  the  meagreness  of  his  allusions 
to  bird  life,  still  proves  beyond  a doubt  that  he  is 
conversant  with  the  migratory  habits  of  the  birds, 
and  that  he  has  been  watching  a little  impatiently 
for  their  vernal  appearance  in  his  native  fields  and 
woods,  as  every  bird  student  who  reads  the  following 
lines  will  testify,  — ? 


248 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“ The  birds  are  here,  for  all  the  season ’s  late  ; 

They  take  the  sun’s  height,  an’  don’  never  wait; 

Soon  ’z  he  officially  declares  it ’s  spring, 

Their  light  hearts  lift ’em  on  a north’ard  wing, 

An’  th’  ain’t  an  acre,  fur  ez  you  can  hear, 

Can’t  by  the  music  tell  the  time  o’  year.” 

Sometimes  a single  line  or  phrase  proclaims  our 
poet’s  loving  familiarity  with  the  feathered  world, 
and  gives  his  verse  an  outdoor  flavor  that  positively 
puts  a tonic  into  the  appreciative  reader’s  veins, 
almost  driving  him  out  beneath  the  shining  vault  of 
the  sky ; as  when  the  poet  refers  to  “ the  cock’s 
shrill  trump  that  tells  of  scattered  corn ; ” or  to 
“ the  thin-winged  swallow  skating  on  the  air ; ” or 
laments  because  “ snowflakes  fledge  the  summer’s 
nest ; ” or  remarks  incidentally  that  the  “ cat-bird 
croons  in  the  lilac-bush ; ” or  that  “ the  robin  sings, 
as  of  old,  from  the  limb ; ” or  that  “ the  single  crow 
a single  caw  lets  fall ; ” or  asks,  “ Is  a thrush 
gurgling  from  the  brake?”  How  vivid  and  full  of 
woodsy  suggestion  are  the  following  lines  from  that 
captivating  poem,  “ A1  Fresco  ” : — 

“The  only  hammer  that  I hear 
Is  wielded  by  the  woodpecker. 

The  single  noisy  calling  his 
In  all  our  leaf-hid  Sybaris.” 

Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic  of  wood- 
peckerdom  than  that  quatrain.  Still  more  rhyth- 
mical are  the  first  six  lines  — a metrical  sextette 
that  sing  themselves — of  the  poem  entitled  “ The 
Fountain  of  Youth,”  — 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL . 249 


“ ’T  is  a woodland  enchanted  ! 

By  no  sadder  spirit 

Than  blackbirds  and  thrushes, 

That  whistle  to  cheer  it 
All  day  in  the  bushes, 

This  woodland  is  haunted. ” 

And  what  a picture  for  the  fancy  is  limned  in  the 
following  lines : — 

“ Like  rainbow-feathered  birds  that  bloom 
A moment  on  some  autumn  bough, 

That,  with  the  spurn  of  their  farewell, 

Sheds  its  last  leaves  ! ” 

A flashlight  view  that,  of  one  of  the  rarest  scenes 
in  Nature.  The  poet  must  have  bent  over  more 
than  one  callow  brood  of  nestlings,  or  he  never 
could  have  written  so  knowingly  about  them, — 

“ Blind  nestlings,  unafraid, 

Stretch  up  wide-mouthed  to  every  shade 
By  which  their  downy  dream  is  stirred. 

Taking  it  for  the  mother  bird;  ” 

for  such  is  the  unsuspicious  habit  of  most  bantlings 
in  the  nest.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a defter 
touch  than  that  with  which  Lowell  describes  a 
resplendent  morning,  “ omnipotent  with  sunshine,” 
whose  “ quick  charm  . . . wiled  the  bluebird  to  his 
whiff  of  song,” 

“ While  aloof 

An  oriole  clattered  and  a robin  shrilled, 
Denouncing  m@  an  alien  and  a thief ; ” 


particularly  if  it  is  borne  in  mind  that  the  allusion  is 
to  the  chattering  alarm-call  of  the  oriole  and  the 
robin.  Exquisite  indeed  is  the  description  of — 


250 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“The  bluebird  shifting  his  light  load  of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence; 

while  it  would  puzzle  one  to  find  anywhere  a more 
poetical  and  at  the  same  time  realistic  portrayal 
than  this,  — 

“ Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side/'  — 

especially  if  the  reference  be  to  the  little  black- 
capped  titmouse’s  minor  whistle,  which  has  a 
strange,  sad  remoteness  when  heard  in  the  sylvan 
depth,  reminding  one  of  the  myth  of  Orpheus 
mourning  for  his  lost  love.  No  less  vivid  are  the 
lines,  — 

“The  phoebe  scarce  whistles 
Once  an  hour  to  his  fellow ; ” 

or  these,  — 

“O’erhead  the  balanced  hen-hawk  slides, 

Twinned  in  the  river’s  heaven  below  ; ” 

or  this  description  of  a winter  scene,  — 

“ I stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by.” 

Hark  ! — 

“ All  pleasant  winds  from  south  and  west 
With  lullabies  thine  ears  beguiled, 

Rocking  thee  in  thine  oriole’s  nest, 

Till  Nature  looked  at  thee  and  smiled.” 

Listen  again  ! — 

“ The  sobered  robin,  hunger-silent  now, 

Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn  cheer.” 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL . 


25I 


If  one  were  only  there  to  see  : — 

“ High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard  crow, 

The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below ; 

Suddenly  drops  the  gull,  and  breaks  the  glassy  tide.” 

Of  course  even  the  casual  observer  has  often 
been  aware  of  the  fact  that  “ the  robin  is  plastering 
his  house  hard  by ; ” and  many  of  us  may  have 
looked  upon  a winter  scene  like  the  following,  but 
I am  sure  we  never  thought  of  painting  it  in  just 
such  tropical  colors, — 

“ The  river  was  numb,  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun ; 

A single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 
From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun.” 

Hosea  Biglow  seems  to  think  he  knows  where 
to  find 

“ Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season  suit  the  mind, 

An’  seem  to  match  the  doubting  bluebird’s  notes,” 

liverworts  and  bloodroots  being  among  those  talis- 
manic  plants.  There  is  a world  of  serenity  in  the 
following  metrical  etching,  which  makes  one  almost 
long  to  die  and  be  forever  at  rest : — 

“ Happy  their  end 

Who  vanish  down  life’s  evening  stream 
Placid  as  swans  that  drift  in  dream 
Round  the  next  river-bend.” 

Our  poet  had  the  charming  habit  of  making  some 
characteristic  bird-way  do  deft  metaphorical  duty  in 


252 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


his  verse,  like  the  skilful  weaver  who  runs  a line  of 
exquisite  tint  through  his  weft.  Here  is  an  instance, 
found  in  the  poem  called  “ Threnodia,”  — 

“ I loved  to  see  the  infant  soul 

Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest, 

His  lips,  the  while, 

Fluttering  with  half-fledged  words, 

Or  hushing  to  a smile 

That  more  than  words  expressed, 

When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 
And  snatched  him  to  her  breast ! 

O,  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those  eyes, 

That  would  have  soared  like  strong-winged  birds 
Far,  far  into  the  skies, 

Gladding  the  earth  with  song 
And  gushing  harmonies.” 

Here  is  another  fine  simile,  — 

“ As  if  a lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 

While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with  its  song, 

So  snapped  at  once  that  music’s  golden  thread/' 

In  the  following  stanzas  on  “ The  Falcon  ” — 
used  as  a metaphor  for  Truth  — there  is  a captivat- 
ing multiplicity  of  figures,  — 

“ I know  a falcon  swift  and  peerless 
As  e’er  was  cradled  in  the  pine; 

No  bird  had  ever  eye  so  fearless, 

Or  wing  so  strong  as  this  of  mine. 

i(  The  winds  not  better  love  to  pilot 
A cloud  with  molten  gold  o’errun, 

Than  him,  a little  burning  islet, 

A star  above  the  coming  sun. 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL.  253 


“ For  with  a lark’s  heart  he  doth  tower, 

By  a glorious  upward  instinct  drawn  ; 

No  bee  nestles  deeper  in  the  flower 
Than  he  in  the  bursting  rose  of  dawn.” 

It  almost  throws  one  into  “ a midsummer  night’s 
dream  ” to  read  this  picturesque  line,  — 

“ The  clouds  like  swar.s  drift  down  the  streaming  atmosphere.” 

That  must  have  been  an  expressive  face  indeed 
whose  features  were 

“ As  full  of  motion  as  a nest 
That  palpitates  with  unfledged  birds,” 

albeit  one  may  be  permitted  to  hope,  without  irrev- 
erence, that  it  made  a more  attractive  picture  than 
did  the  callow  youngsters  gaping  and  wabbling  in 
their  nursery.  But  here  is  a delineation  of  bird 
life  so  graphically  and  richly  colored  that  one  longs 
for  the  brush  of  the  artist  to  transfer  it  to  canvas. 
Listen ! listen ! There  is  an  exhilarant  in  the 
atmosphere. 

"The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a blossom  among  the  leaves, 

And  lets  his  illumined  being  o’errun 
With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 

His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 

And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  ; 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 

In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? ” 

The  last  two  lines,  by  the  way,  are  in  perfect  keep- 
ing with  Mr.  Lowell’s  generous  instincts,  which  were 
always  on  the  side  of  the  lowly  and  unappreciated. 


254 


Ii V BIRD  LAND. 


Seductive  as  the  figure  is,  there  seems  to  be  some- 
thing slightly  forced  in  the  poet’s  conceit  that  the 
thrushes  sing  because  they  have  been  “ pierced 
through  with  June’s  delicious  sting,”  unless  it  might 
be  justified  on  the  principle  that  pain  and  trial  often 
enhance  moral  values. 

There  is  a beautiful  stanza  in  the  poem,  “ On 
Planting  a Tree  at  Inverara,”  — 

“ Hither  the  busy  birds  shall  flutter, 

With  the  light  timber  for  their  nests, 

And,  pausing  from  their  labor,  utter 
The  morning  sunshine  in  their  breasts.” 

With  all  his  poet’s  soul  Lowell  loved  the  serene, 
as  when  he  congratulates  himself  on  having  left  the 
grating  noise  and  stifling  smoke  of  London,  and 
found  in  some  sequestered  haunt 

“ Air  and  quiet  too  ; 

Air  filtered  through  the  beech  and  oak; 

Quiet  by  nothing  harsher  broke 
Than  wood-dove’s  meditative  coo.” 

The  word  “ meditative  ” is  extremely  felicitous, 
but  no  more  so  than  the  hop-skip-and-spring  of 
the  following  lines  from  a Commencement  dinner 
poem  : — 

“ I ’ve  a notion,  I think,  of  a good  dinner  speech, 

Tripping  light  as  a sandpiper  over  the  beach, 

Swerving  this  way  and  that,  as  the  wave  of  the  moment 
Washes  out  its  slight  trace  with  a dash  of  whim’s  foam  on ’t, 
And  leaving  on  memory’s  rim  just  a sense 
Something  graceful  had  gone  by,  a live  present  tense  ; 

Not  poetry,  — no,  not  quite  that,  but  as  good, 

A kind  of  winged  prose  that  could  fly  if  it  would.” 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL.  255 

Like  all  discriminating  lovers  of  “ Nature’s  blithe 
commoners,”  Lowell  had  his  favorites,  whose 
praises  he  frequently  rung  with  a sincerity  that 
cannot  be  doubted  for  a moment.  He  was  espe- 
cially partial  to  the  bobolink.  Lie  must  have  often 
peeped  into  the 

“Tussocks  that  house  blithe  Bob  o’  Lincoln/’ 

or  his  Muse  would  not  have  been  so  adept  and 
faithful  in  her  hymning  descriptions.  We  will  lend 
a listening  ear  while  she  sings  her  chansons  on  the 
virtues  of  the  bird  our  poet  loved  so  truly.  First, 
I will  call  attention  to  the  following  portraiture  of 
that  cavalier  of  the  meadow,  the  male  bobolink,  at 
the  season  when  there  are  bantlings  in  the  grass- 
dome^  nest  which  demand  his  paternal  care,  as 
well  as  that  of  his  faithful  spouse,  — 

“ Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o’er  rapture’s  tremulous  brink, 

And  ’twixt  the  windrows  most  demurely  drops, 

A decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 
For  his  brown  mate  and  fledgelings  six  besides, 

And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a farmer  ’mid  his  crops.” 

One  can  almost  see  the  poet  leaning  against  the 
rail  fence  of  the  clover  field,  with  pencil  in  hand, 
drawing  the  portrait  of  the  bird  which  is  posing 
unconsciously  before  him,  so  true  is  his  delineation 
of  bobolink  life.  But  to  find  Lowell  at  his  best  you 
must  read  his  description  of  Robert  o’  Lincoln  at 
his  best.  Hark  ! — 


256 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“A  week  ago  the  sparrow  was  divine; 

The  bluebird,  shifting  his  light  load  of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence, 

Was  as  a rhymer  ere  the  poet  come ; 

But  now,  oh,  rapture  ! sunshine  winged  and  voiced, 

Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm,  wild  breath  of  the  West, 
Shepherding  his  soft  droves  of  fleecy  cloud, 

Gladness  of  woods,  skies,  waters,  all  in  one. 

The  bobolink  has  come,  and,  like  the  soul 
Of  the  sweet  season,  vocal  in  a bird, 

Gurgles  in  ecstasy  we  know  not  what, 

Save  June  ! Dear  June  ! Now  God  be  praised  for  June.” 

The  only  fault  to  be  found  with  this  exquisite 
tribute  is  that  it  is  rather  too  much  involved  to 
glide  melodiously  from  the  lips,  or  be  quite  clear 
to  the  mind  until  after  a second  or  third  reading. 
Not  so  picturesque,  but  more  simple  and  musical, 
is  this  bit,  — 

“ From  blossom-clouded  orchards,  far  away 
The  bobolink  tinkled.  ” 

The  provincial  tongue  of  Hosea  Biglow  presents 
us  with  the  following  rare  bit  of  portraiture,  which 
has  all  the  strength  and  freshness  of  a painting  from 
Nature  : — 

“ June’s  bridesman,  poet  o’  the  year, 

Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink  is  here  ; 

Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple-bloom  he  sings, 

Or  climbs  against  the  breeze  with  quiverin’  wings, 

Or,  givin’  way  to ’t  in  mock  despair, 

Runs  down,  a brook  o’  laughter,  thro’  the  air,”  — 

a rhythmical  tribute  that  is  both  an  honor  to  the 
poet  and  a compliment  to  the  bobolink. 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL. 


257 


The  Baltimore  oriole  also  claims  Mr.  Lowell’s 
admiration.  There  is  one  descriptive  passage  rela- 
tive to  this  bird  that,  in  my  opinion,  goes  ahead 
of  even  the  famous  bobolink  eulogy  just  quoted  : 

“ Hush  ! ’T  is  he  ! 

My  oriole,  my  glance  of  summer  fire, 

Is  come  at  last,  and,  ever  on  the  watch, 

Twitches  the  pack-thread  I had  lightly  wound 
About  the  bough  to  help  his  housekeeping,  — 
Twitches  and  scouts  by  turns,  blessing  his  luck, 

Yet  fearing  me  who  laid  it  in  his  way, , 

Nor,  more  than  wiser  we  in  our  affairs, 

Divines  the  providence  that  hides  and  helps. 

Heave,  ho  ! Heave,  ho  ! he  whistles  as  the  twine 
Slackens  its  hold  ; oitce  more , now  ! and  a flash 
Lightens  across  the  sunlight  to  the  elm 
Where  his  mate  dangles  at  her  cup  of  felt. 

Nor  all  his  booty  is  the  thread ; he  trails 
My  loosened  thought  with  it  along  the  air, 

And  I must  follow,  would  I ever  find 
The  inward  rhyme  to  all  this  wealth  of  life.” 

The  last  sentence  is  a deft  turn  at  weaving,  oriole- 
like, a thread  of  moral  reflection  into  a fine  piece  of 
description.  Even  in  his  later  years  Lowell  could 
not  throw  off  the  spell  that  this  summer  flake  of 
gold  had  thrown  over  him ; for  in  his  volume  called 
“ Heartsease  and  Rue  ” he  has  inserted  a little 
poem  entitled  “The  Nest  ” that  for  rhythmical  flow 
and  beauty  has  not  been  excelled  by  any  of  his 
earlier  productions.  He  first  describes  the  nest  in 
May  as  follows  : — 

“ Then  from  the  honeysuckle  gray 
The  oriole  with  experienced  quest 
17 


IN  BIRD  LAND . 


Twitches.  the  fibrous  bark  away, 

The  cordage  of  his  hammock  nest, 

Cheering  his  labor  with  a note 
Rich  as  the  orange  of  his  throat. 

“ High  o’er  the  loud  and  dusty  road 
The  soft  gray  cup  in  safety  swings. 

To  brim  ere  August  with  its  load 

Of  downy  breasts  and  throbbing  wings, 

O’er  which  the  friendly  elm-tree  heaves 
An  emerald  roof  with  sculptured  leaves. 

Thy  duty,  winged  flame  of  Spring, 

Is  but  to  love  and  fly  and  sing.” 

Then  he  chants  a pathetic  “ palinode,”  as  he 
calls  it,  in  December,  when 

“ . . . homeless  winds  complain  along 
The  columned  choir  once  thrilled  with  song. 

“And  thou,  dear  nest,  whence  joy  and  praise 
The  thankful  oriole  used  to  pour, 

Swing’st  empty  while  the  north  winds  chase 
Their  snowy  swarms  from  Labrador. 

But,  loyal  to  the  happy  past, 

I love  thee  still  for  what  thou  wast.” 

Besides  the  bobolink  and  the  oriole,  the  black- 
bird is  often  made  to  do  charming  duty  in  Lowell’s 
verse.  Every  student  of  the  birds  has  often  seen 
the  picture  described  by  the  line,  — 

“ Alders  the  creaking  red-wings  sink  on  ; ” 

or  heard 

“ . . . the  blackbirds  clatt’rin’  in  tall  trees 
An’  settlin’  things  in  windy  Congresses,  — 

Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I’ll  be  skinned 
Ef  all  on  ’em  don’t  head  against  the  wind.” 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL . 259 


A number  of  quotations  in  which  the  robin  figures 
conspicuously  have  already  been  given.  One  more 
occurs  to  me,  — that  in  which  Hosea  Biglow 
exclaims,  — 

“ Thet  ’s  robin-redbreast’s  almanick  ; he  knows 
That  arter  this  ther’  ’s  only  blossom-snows  ; 

So,  choosiiT  out  a handy  crotch  an’  spouse, 

He  goes  to  plast’rin’  his  adobe  house.” 

But  hold  ! here  is  still  another  : — 

“ The  Maple  puts  her  corals  on  in  May, 

While  loitering  frosts  about  the  lowlands  cling, 

To  be  in  tune  with  what  the  robins  sing, 

Plastering  new  log-huts  ’mid  her  branches  gray.” 

It  can  scarcely  be  hoped  to  make  this  anthology 
from  Lowell  exhaustive,  for  almost  every  time  I 
turn  the  leaves  of  his  poetical  works  I stumble  upon 
some  reference  to  the  birds  before  unnoted ; but 
this  article  would  be  incomplete  should  one  of  his 
choicest  bits  of  metrical  description,  which  must 
bring  both  anthology  and  book  to  a close,  be 
omitted.  It  is  found  in  the  poem  entitled  “ The 
Nightingale  in  the  Study,”  the  whole  of  which  must 
be  read  to  catch  the  drift  of  its  moral  teaching. 
The  poet  doubtless  attributes  more  magnanimity  to 
the  cat-bird  than  that  carolist  is  entitled  to,  — but 
no  matter;  the  Muses  cannot  be  over-precise. 
Here  is  a charmer : — 

“ ‘ Come  forth  ! ’ my  cat-bird  calls  to  me, 

* And  hear  me  sing  a cavatina 
That,  in  this  old  familiar  tree, 

Shall  hang  a garden  of  Alcina. 


26o 


IN  BIRD  LAND. 


“ ‘ Or,  if  to  me  you  will  not  hark, 

By  Beaver  Brook  a thrush  is  ringing 
Till  all  the  alder-coverts  dark 

Seem  sunshine-dappled  with  his  singing. 

“‘Come  out  beneath  the  unmastered  sky, 
With  its  emancipating  spaces, 

And  learn  to  sing  as  well  as  I, 

Without  premeditated  graces. 


“ ' Come  out ! with  me  the  oriole  cries, 

Escape  the  demon  that  pursues  you  ! 

And  hark  ! the  cuckoo  weatherwise, 

Still  hiding,  farther  onward  wooes  you.’  ” 

But  this  time,  for  a wonder,  the  poet  declines  the 
invitation  to  go  out  of  doors,  because,  as  he  says, 
“ a bird  is  singing  in  my  brain ; ” and  yet  he 
does  so  with  evident  regret,  for  he  exclaims,  in 
response  to  the  cat-bird's  plea,  — 

Alas,  dear  friend,  that,  all  my  days, 

Has  poured  from  that  syringa  thicket 
The  quaintly  discontinuous  lays 
To  which  I hold  a season  ticket,  — 

€t  ‘ A season  ticket  cheaply  bought 
With  a dessert  of  pilfered  berries, 

And  who  so  oft  my  love  has  caught 
With  morn  and  evening  voluntaries, 

“ * Deem  me  not  faithless,  if  all  day 
Among  my  dusty  books  I linger, 

No  pipe,  like  thee,  for  June  to  play 
With  fancy-led,  half-conscious  finger. 


A BIRD  ANTHOLOGY  FROM  LOWELL. 


261 


“ ( A bird  is  singing  in  my  brain, 

And  bubbling  o’er  with  mingled  fancies, ' 
Gay,  tragic,  rapt,  right  heart  of  Spain 
Fed  with  the  sap  of  old  romances 


and  so  for  once  the  poet  of  the  birds  cannot  be  lured 
from  his  study,  where  he  has  been  caught  in  the  weft 
of  old  Moorish  and  Castilian  legends,  and  he  con- 
cludes his  apology  with  the  only  slighting  allusion 
in  all  his  verses,  so  far  as  I have  discovered,  to  his 
beloved  winged  minstrels  : — 

“ ‘ Bird  of  to-day,  thy  songs  are  stale 
To  his,  my  singer  of  all  weathers, 

My  Calderon,  my  nightingale, 

My  Arab  soul  in  Spanish  feathers. 


“ 1 Ah,  friend,  these  singers  dead  so  long, 

And  still,  God  knows,  in  purgatory, 

Give  its  best  sweetness  to  all  song, 

To  Nature’s  self  her  better  glory.’  ” 

Thus  the  Lowell  anthology  has  swollen  to  a veri- 
table anthem,  and  gives  to  this  modest  volume  a 
peroration  that  it  can  never  hope  to  deserve. 


APPENDIX. 


MY  BIRD  LIST. 

THE  following  is  an  alphabetical  list  of  the  birds 
which  I have  seen  in  my  neighborhood,  Springfield, 
Clark  County,  Ohio.  It  is  given  for  the  convenience  of 
bird  students,  who  are  always  interested  in  the  locale  of 
the  feathered  tribe.  The  small  figure  (i)  indicates 
residents  all  the  year  round;  (2),  summer  residents; 
(3),  winter  residents ; (4),  migrants. 

Dickcissel.2 

Dove,  turtle  or  mourning.1 
Duck,  wood.2 

Finch,  purple.4 
Flicker.1 

Flycatcher,  Acadian.4 
crested.2 
least.4 
Traill’s.4 
yellow-bellied.4 

Gnatcatcher,  blue -gray.4 
Goldfinch,  American.1 
Grass-finch.2 
Grossbeak,  cardinal.1 

rose-beasted.4 
Grouse,  ruffed.1 

Hawk,  red-shouldered.3 
sharp-shinned.3 


Bittern,  American  2 
Blackbird,  red-winged.2 
Bluebird  2 (occasionally  win- 
ter resident). 

Bobolink.2 

Bob-white.1 

Bunting,  black  - throated  ; 

Dickcissel.2 
Butcher-bird.4 
Buzzard,  turkey.2 

Cat-bird.2 

Cedar-bird.4 

Chat,  yellow-breasted.2 

Chickadee,  black-capped.1 

Cow-bird.2 

Creeper,  brown.3 

Crow.1 

Cuckoo,  black -billed.2 
yellow-billed.2 


264 


MY  BIRD  LIST. 


Hawk,  sparrow.1 
Heron,  great  blue.2 
green.2 

Humming-bird,  ruby- 
throated.2 

Indigo-bird.2 

Jay,  blue.2 
Junco;  snowbird.3 

Killdeer.2 
Kingbird.2 
Kingfisher,  belted  2 
Kinglet,  golden-crownea3 
ruby-crowned.4 

Lark,  horned  or  shore.3 
meadow.2 

Martin,  purple.2 

Night-hawk.2 

Nuthatch,  white-breasted.1 
red-breasted.4 

Oriole,  Baltimore.2 

orchard.2 
Oven  bird.2 
Owl,  screech.1 

Pewee,  wood.2 
Phoebe ; house  pewee.2 
Pipit,  American.3 

Redstart.4 

Robin2  (sometimes  in  win- 
ter). 

Sandpiper,  spotted  2 
Sapsucker,  yellow-bellied.4 


Shrike,  loggerhead.4 
Sparrow,  chipping  2 
English.1 
field.2 
fox  4 

grasshopper.2 

lark.4 

Savanna.4 

song.1 

swamp.4 

tree.3 

white-crowned.4 
white-throated.4 
Swallow,  bank.2 
barn2 

cliff  or  cave, 
white-bellied  or 
tree.2 

Swift,  chimney.2 

Tanager,  scarlet.2 
Titmouse,  tufted.1 
Thrasher,  brown.2 
Thrush,  hermit  4 

Wilson’s  or  veery  4 
wood.2 

Towhee ; chewink.2 

Vireo,  blue-headed.4 
red-eyed.2 
warbling.2 
white-eyed.4 
yellow-throated.4 

Warbler,  bay-breasted.4 
black  and  white.4 
Blackburnian  4 
black-poll  4 
black-throated  blue.4 
black-throated  green.4 
blue-winged.4 


MY  BIRD  LIST. 


Warbler,  Canadian.4 
cerulean.4 
chestnut-sided.4 
Connecticut.4 
golden-winged.4 
hooded.4 
Kirtland’s.4 
magnolia.4 
Maryland  yellow- 
throat.2 
mourning.4 
myrtle.4 
Nashville.4 
palm  or  red-poll.4 
Tennessee.4 
Wilson’s  ; green 
black-capped  4 


265 

Warbler,  worm-eating.4 

yellow  or  summer.2 
Water-thrush.4 

Louisiana.4 
Whippoorwill.2 
Woodpecker,  downy.1 

golden-winged ; flicker.1 
hairy.1 

red-bellied ; zebra-bird.3 
red-headed.2 
yellow-bellied.4 
Wren,  Bewick’s.2 
Carolina.1 
house.2 

short-billed  marsh.4 
winter  4 


INDEX 


Accentor,  199. 

Addison,  quoted,  168. 

Allen,  J.  A.,  quoted,  79-80. 

Bird  baths,  15,  38,  39,  51,  205. 
Bird  colonies,  42-44. 

Bird  migration,  64,  76-86. 

Bird  plumage,  87-91. 

Bird  roosts,  116-126. 

Bird  sadness,  207,  208. 

Bird  song,  my  creed  regarding, 
*3>  14- 

Birds  of  Paradise,  167. 
Blackbirds,  180,  249,  258. 
crow,  29,  34,  35,  63. 
red-winged,  29,  65,  120, 125. 
yellow-headed,  235. 
Bluebirds,  28,  88,  165,  190,  209, 
249,  250. 

Bobolink,  200,  247,  255,  256. 
Bolles,  Frank,  29. 

Brewster,  William,  84-86. 
Browning,  Robert,  quoted,  150. 
Browning,  Mrs.  E.  B.,  quoted, 
169. 

Bryant,  W.  CM  quoted,  81. 
Bunting,  black-throated,  112. 
cow,  96,  97,  125,  178,  180, 
199. 

towhee,  66,  89,  93,  113,  156, 
163,  200. 

Burns,  Robert,  quoted,  207. 
Burroughs,  John,  29,  165,  21 1. 

Cat-bird,  24-26,  82,  125,  143, 
259-261. 

Chapman,  Frank  M.,  80. 


Chat,  yellow-breasted,  102,  154, 

19374- 

Chewink,  62. 

Chickadee,  42,  44,  217,  250. 
Coleridge,  quoted,  208. 
Collectors,  214. 

Creeper,  brown,  15,  17-20,  44, 
203,  219. 

Cross-bill,  209. 

Crow,  154,  251. 

Cuckoo,  yellow-billed,  174,  187. 

Dove,  turtle,  13,  63,  120,  172, 
J73- 

Emerson,  42,  52,  244. 

quoted,  10,  11,  49,  141,  158, 
225. 

Falcon,  252. 

Finch,  cut-throat,  206. 
purple,  72. 

Fish,  Eldridge  E.,  94,  97,  209. 
Flicker,  yellow-hammer,  57,  124, 
162,  205. 

Flycatcher,  Traill’s,  85. 

Gibson,  W.  H.,  quoted,  92. 
Gnat-catcher,  blue-gray,  144-146, 
195- 

Goldfinch,  74,  104-109,  1 13,  187, 
232i  235- 

Grackle,  purple  (see  Crow  black- 
bird), 35. 

Grass-finch,  68,  88,  112,  118. 
Grossbeak,  Brazilian,  232. 

cardinal,  46,  62,  90,  113, 
156,  232. 


268 


INDEX . 


Grossbeak,  evening,  71. 

rose-breasted,  64,  73. 
Grouse,  ruffed,  166. 

Hawk,  hen,  250. 

sparrow,  210. 

Heron,  great  blue,  237. 

green,  155,  181-183. 
Howells,  W.  D.,  quoted,  11. 
Hummers,  165. 

Indigo-bird,  87,  102,  153,  235. 

Jay,  blue,  28,  196,  210,  234. 
Juncos  (see  Snow-birds),  51,  53- 
56,  82,  118,  219,  229. 

Killdeer,  28,  65,  99,  183. 
King-bird;  bee-martin,  197. 
Kingfisher,  Australian,  234. 

belted,  184. 

Kinglets,  42,  166. 

golden-crowned,  36,  44,  81, 
204,  209. 

ruby-crowned,  91,  204. 


Langille,  J.  H.,  quoted,  166. 
Lanier,  Sidney,  quoted,  14-15, 
T33- 

Larcom,  Lucy,  quoted,  68. 

Lark,  247,  252,  253. 

meadow,  65,  84,  112,  118, 

125,  173- 

Longfellow,  quoted,  164. 

Lowell,  40,  45. 

quoted,  113, 128-9,  130, 13 1, 
175,  198,  222,  243-261. 

Martin,  house  or  purple,  241. 
Mexican  stars,  166. 

Milton,  quoted,  200. 

Montreal,  226. 

Mount  Royal,  Canada,  227-231. 


Nests,  20,  92-109,  169-185. 
Night-hawk,  1 35-140. 

Nonpareil,  212,  232. 

Nuthatch,  white-breasted,  15,  29, 
3h  35>  42,  45»  47,  212. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  64,  99,  113, 
249,  257,  260. 
orchard,  153,  180. 
Oven-bird,  142. 

Owls,  121,  238. 

Parrots,  236. 

Pelicans,  237. 

Pewee,  wood,  1 14,  115,  127-134, 
190,  196,  220,  244. 

Pheasant,  silver,  234. 

Phoebe,  69,  126,  189,  220,  250. 

Redstart,  74,  91,  230. 

Robin,  27,  65,  73,  1 12,  120,  200, 
21 1,  233,  246,  249,  250,  251, 
259- 

Sandpiper,  254. 

Sangster,  Margaret  E.,  quoted, 
93- 

Shakespeare,  quoted,  212. 
Snow-bird  (see  Junco),  49,  51, 
250. 

Sparrow,  bush,  12,  68,  88,  99, 
102-104,  105,  106,  109, 
112,  120. 

chipping,  69,  88,  210. 
English,  239. 
fox,  67. 

grasshopper,  156. 
lark,  1 1 2,  1 18. 
song,  13,  15,  46,  56,  58,  60- 
62,  63,  65,  66,  1 14,  1 19, 
153,  164,  229. 
swamp,  222. 

tree,  15,  49-51,  53,  55,  56, 
59-60,  1 16. 


INDEX. 


269 


Sparrow,  white-crowned,  90. 
white- throated,  120, 224,233, 
. 237- 

Starling,  English,  232. 

Swallow,  bank,  98. 

Swan,  251,  253. 

Tanager,  scarlet,  65,  89,  213. 

Thrasher,  brown,  14,  64,  81,  82, 
94,  120,  121,  143,  148-151, 
190,  202,  206. 

Titmouse,  black-capped,  15,  31, 
32,  64,  1 13,  180. 
crested,  20,  32,  35,  45. 

Thrush,  Wilson’s,  227,  228. 
wood,  95, 122, 156,  159,  170- 
172,  179,  190,  206,  259. 

Torrey,  Bradford,  39,  134,  149, 
223. 

Vireo,  blue-headed,  71-72. 
red-eyed,  72,  85,  177,  230. 
warbling,  99,  152,  196. 

Wallace,  A.  R.,  quoted,  167. 

Warblers,  38,  82,  85,  86,  90,  217. 
bay-breasted,  74. 
Blackburnian,  220. 
black-throated  blue,  220. 
black-throated  green,  220, 
221,  230. 


Warblers,  blue-winged,  70. 
cerulean,  114,  220. 
chestnut-sided,  114,220, 230. 
creeping,  220,  229. 
hooded,  83,  146-148,  199. 
Kentucky,  156. 

Maryland  yellow-throat,  85, 
9L  ii3>  153- 
mourning,  83. 
myrtle,  38,  39,  220. 
parula,  220. 
summer,  96-98. 
worm-eating,  144. 
Water-thrush,  Louisiana,  158. 
Waxbills,  231. 

Weaver-birds,  236. 
Whippoorwill,  135,  149. 
Wood-dove,  254. 

Woodpeckers,  17,  42,  124,  248. 
downy,  15,  46,  163. 
hairy,  32,  46. 

red-bellied;  zebra  bird,  21. 
red-headed,  32,  36-38,  89, 
123,  125,  142,  186,  197, 
199,  202. 

yellow-bellied ; sap-sucker, 
29,  30. 

Wren,  Bewick’s,  39,  64,  69,  143. 
Carolina,  41,  113,  157. 

Zoological  Garden,  a visit 
to,  231-239. 


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